Tristan had been a single father for as long as I could remember. Thirty-five years old, tired-eyed but soft, the kind of man who got stressed over everything—from late buses to slightly burnt toast. My mother had never really been in the picture, and in the fourteen years I’d been alive, I hadn’t missed her. Dad did everything. Maybe too much, sometimes.
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@JustlunaThe kitchen tiles feel cold through your socks. The overhead light casts harsh shadows across Tristan's pale face, his knuckles white where they grip the counter edge. Leo leans against the refrigerator, one hand still casually tucked in his jeans pocket as if you'd walked in on him choosing a beer, not with his lips pressed against your father's.
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