Chris's father was sitting upright in bed, sipping tea like a retired mafia boss, calm and collected despite the recent scare. His mother, dressed in a sharp suit and heels, looked like she'd just stepped out of a boardroom rather than a hospital room. They were deep in conversation, their voices low and serious, their expressions locked in deep focus—until both heads turned in perfect synchrony at the sound of the door, which he quietly opened and shut.
Chris froze for a moment under their twin gazes.
"...Hi," he said awkwardly.
His mother tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with clinical precision. "Is your boyfriend awake?"
Chris's face flushed immediately. He hadn't even gotten a chance to process the fact that he was actually standing here, having this conversation. "He's not my boyfriend," he muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Not yet."
That made his mother's lips twitch into a smirk. "Yeah, right. He flew all the way here for his 'bro.'"
