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The air inside Robert’s apartment is thick, viscous with the scent of roasted turkey, melted butter, and the slightly metallic, sweet tang of inexpensive red wine. It is Thursday, November 26, 1998, and the mid-afternoon sun, a weak, pale yellow, barely manages to cut through the front window, illuminating the dust motes dancing lazily above the mahogany dining table. Robert Simmons, a man of average height whose slender frame now carries the slight, tense protrusion of a stressed stomach, stands at the head of the table. The fluorescent kitchen light reflects harshly off the balding crown of his dark blond hair, exaggerating the purplish exhaustion pooling beneath his eyes. He is wearing a freshly pressed beige cardigan over a simple white Oxford shirt, the kind of attire that screams ‘well-meaning but ultimately powerless.’
Chaos, a familiar, unwelcome guest, already sits at the table.
Robert clutches the back of his wooden chair, his knuckles white against the grain. He needs to sit, but he needs this tradition—this simple, merciful pause before the gorging—to happen first. His voice, usually a gentle, encouraging cadence in the classroom, is strained and high-pitched, barely concealing the frantic energy vibrating just beneath his skin.
“Please, Joy, just say grace so we can eat,” Robert requests, his eyes pleading with his younger sister.
Joy, leaning back in her chair with a studied air of intellectual boredom, shrugs a shoulder draped in an oversized, faded flannel shirt. Her movements are slow and deliberate, as if she is navigating a world perpetually submerged in treacle. Her long, unkempt brown hair falls over the front of a classic car magazine she is holding, one that features a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air on the cover.
“Why should I?” Joy drawls, her voice pitched low, slow, and utterly unmotivated. She does not look at Robert, instead focusing on a tiny, frayed corner of the magazine page. “It’s a pointless, antiquated tradition. It’s not like God needs to bless this dry bird, Rob. You’ve already overcooked it.”
Across the table, Peter, Robert’s boyfriend, tenses. Peter is noticeably taller and broader than Robert, his tan complexion contrasting sharply with the bright red sweater he wears over snug blue jeans, a startlingly modern choice against the family’s muted tones. His short blond hair is meticulously combed, and a matching blond mustache sits trimly above his lip. He wears sandals, even in the late November chill. Peter is not a man built for silence.
“He’s worked hard on this, which is more than I can say about your latest job journey, Joy,” Peter says, his voice cutting and sharp, devoid of the slow, gentle patience Robert often exhibits. Peter sets his fork down with a barely perceptible clink.
Joy finally lifts her head, her gaze meeting Peter’s with cold disinterest, though a spark of anger is visible deep in her eyes. “Fuck off. Just because I won’t say grace.”
“Oh, it’s not just the grace, is it?” Peter counters, leaning forward slightly, the protective instinct for Robert flaring up instantly. He knows Robert is on the verge of tears from sheer organizational overload. “It’s the permanent cloud of misery you bring to every gathering. It’s the way you actively try to sabotage any shred of happiness. Your depression is not my problem.”
A heavy, thick silence falls, broken only by the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of Uncle Chuck absently tapping his knife against a wine glass.
Pearl, Robert and Joy’s mother, finally interjects, seizing the opportunity to insert herself into the conflict, as is her custom. Pearl is a woman whose elegance is perpetually undermined by her sharp, critical posture. She wears a string of pearls, which she fingers nervously. “Robert, I’d tell you to rein in your friend,” Pearl says, the word friend delivered with a sneering, pointed emphasis that slices through the room’s already fragile atmosphere. She directs the comment at Robert, deliberately avoiding Peter’s gaze. “But we both know who wears the pants in this absurd little dynamic.”
Peter’s jaw clenches, his entire body rigidifying in the red sweater. He shoots Pearl a look of pure, concentrated distaste. “That is uncalled for! Why don’t you stop blabbing and eat more stuffing? It’s not getting any warmer.”
Pearl draws back as if struck, her eyes widening in theatrical offense. “Are you calling me fat, Peter? Is that what this is? The attack on my character failed, so now you move to my weight?”
“You said it, not me,” Peter replies smoothly, a ghost of a victorious smirk touching his mustache. He knows he has landed a blow, a satisfaction he barely allows himself to feel amidst the rising tide of stress.
Robert, already sweating slightly under the cardigan, reaches for the dark glass bottle of Merlot near his plate, his hand trembling as he pours himself a third, heavy glass. When he takes a sip, he realizes he has poured nearly half the bottle. He ignores the fact that this level of alcohol consumption will only worsen his headache later. One problem at a time.
Uncle Chuck, Pearl’s brother, has been successfully ignoring the familial disintegration, wholly absorbed in the consumption of food. He is a stout, lumbering man with a permanently bewildered expression, currently wearing a gravy stain already blooming on his pale blue shirt. Without a word or even a glance in her direction, Chuck leans over, scoops a generous spoonful of sweet potato casserole off the corner of his sister Pearl’s plate, and shovels it into his mouth. Pearl merely glares at him, then ignores the infraction, finding a higher emotional target in Peter.
Pearl takes a deep, cleansing breath and abruptly changes gears, deciding that she must control the narrative with her own version of gratitude.
“Well, since some people won’t grant the decency of a blessing,” Pearl announces, her voice suddenly saccharine-sweet and overly loud, demanding the attention she craves. She begins a lengthy monologue, running a manicured finger around the rim of her glass. “I am so terribly grateful for my promotion to regional supervisor—a promotion, I might add, that comes with a company car, something Joy certainly couldn’t keep. And I’m thankful that my daughter, Joy, won that ridiculous lawsuit when her precious sports car was stolen. Such a relief.”
Peter snorts, not even bothering to mask his contempt. “That didn’t bring the car back, Pearl. That just gave your insurance company a headache. You won nothing.”
“Details, details,” Pearl dismisses with a fluttering wave of her hand. She continues, warming up to her subject. “And, of course, I am eternally thankful that my dear brother, Chuck, here—who just ate half my casserole, I see—was cleared from what we all so terribly feared was stomach cancer. Such a scare, Chuckie.”
Robert, who has been staring at his plate, sees the opportunity for his dark, stress-induced humor to leak out. His voice is tight, a frantic sound that breaks the surface tension of his usual kindness.
“It’s a wonder it wasn’t a tapeworm,” Robert cuts in, the words escaping before he can stop them. His breath hitches immediately. Too far. Too soon.
The effect of the comment is immediate and dramatic. Joy, who had just managed to tear a massive, greasy turkey leg from the bird, stops chewing mid-bite. Her eyes, wide and panicked, stare directly at her brother. A terrible, choking, gurgling sound rips from her throat. She gasps, her hands flying to her neck, the turkey leg dropping with a wet thud onto her plate. She is truly choking.
Peter, witnessing Robert’s dark quip, had been mid-sip of his water. He lowers his glass slowly, a look of shocked, intense pride spreading across his face. He locks eyes with Robert, giving him a slow, proud nod of approval, a silent recognition of the brief, dark courage.
Robert, however, is already in Teacher Mode™, and the emergency protocol is overtaking his stress. The disorganized, absent-minded man vanishes, replaced by the fourth—and fifth-grade instructor who has taken every CPR and first-aid course ever mandated by the district. He vaults himself out of his chair, scrambles past his mother, and rushes to his sister.
“Joy! Up! Up!” Robert shouts, his voice booming with unexpected authority.
He grabs her from behind, locking his arms around her midsection, just below her ribs. He ignores the grease on his white shirt and the startled shriek from his mother. He positions his fist just above her belly button, his thumb pressed inward. Joy is limp with panic, but Robert is strong, fueled by adrenaline and a deep, instinctual need to save his own. He performs the Heimlich Maneuver. One shove. Nothing. A second, more vigorous, more focused thrust upward.
With a final, awful WHOOSH of air, the obstruction—a massive, half-chewed chunk of turkey meat—flies out of Joy's mouth, landing with a splat in the gravy boat.
Joy collapses back into her chair, gasping. Her face is flushed, a blotchy, alarming purple. She takes several deep, ragged breaths, clinging to the table's edge. Robert leans over her, panting, his head spinning, the earlier red wine suddenly hitting him with force. Joy slowly recovers, rubbing her throat. She glances at the gravy boat, then at Robert. The life-and-death drama has seemingly rebooted her sense of obligation.
“Fine,” Joy whispers, her voice raspy, a low, exhausted sound that is marginally faster than her everyday speech. “You saved me from turkey. I concede. I will concede to one tradition this year. Name your poison, Robert. Grace is off the table.”
Robert staggers back to his seat, breathing heavily. Peter has already rushed over and pulled Robert’s chair out for him, then placed a clean napkin over the grease mark on his shoulder. He shoots Joy a silent, warning glare.
“The family photo,” Robert says, his voice now a low, trembling mumble. He needs a moment of forced, documented unity, a piece of photographic evidence that this day was not a complete collapse. “We haven’t taken one since your high school graduation. I want a picture.”
Joy rolls her eyes, but to her credit, she does not argue further. “Whatever, Rob. Just make it fast.”
Robert, fueled by the last scraps of his organizational energy, moves quickly. He fetches his old, reliable Canon AE-1 program camera, which he keeps mounted on a tripod in the hallway closet—a leftover from Joy’s brief, abandoned foray into photography. He sets the tripod up in the corner of the dining room, ensuring the lens captures the entire family seated around the half-eaten meal.
He adjusts the timer, his lips barely moving as he gives the directions in his familiar, tired classroom voice—a gentle drone used to corral thirty ten-year-olds. “Alright, everyone. Smile. Peter, come closer to the table. Joy, take that magazine off your lap. Chuck, please hold that piece of bread out of frame. Please.”
Everyone complies with varying degrees of resentment. Chuck, Peter, Joy, and Pearl gather their faces in a semblance of polite holiday cheer. Robert rushes to his seat, tucking himself between Pearl and Peter. The little red light on the camera blinks slowly, counting down. Five. Four. Robert flashes a wide, desperate smile. Three. Two. Everyone maintains the strained, forced pleasantry. One. The flash explodes—a blinding, momentary white that perfectly captures the façade of the happy Simmons family.
Before the chemical scent of the flash powder even dissipates, the smiles drop. Pearl immediately begins dissecting the photograph’s potential flaws. “I hope you used a good filter, Robert. The light is dreadful.”
Joy retrieves her magazine, sinking back into her chair with a heavy sigh. Chuck is already halfway through a new piece of turkey.
As Robert passes the tripod on his way back to his seat, collecting the camera, Peter moves quickly past him, heading toward the kitchen for a glass of water. He squeezes Robert’s hand—not just a touch but firm, anchoring pressure, a shared moment of recognition that the crisis is ongoing, not over. It helps Robert a little. It gives him a small, necessary surge of strength.
Ding-dong.
The sound of the doorbell, so foreign and unexpected on this highly scheduled day, cuts through the low-level tension. Robert freezes, mid-breath, holding the camera.
“Who in God’s name is that?” Pearl demands, annoyed by the interruption to her complaining cycle.
Robert places the camera gently on the sideboard. He straightens his cardigan and smooths his hair back with a shaky hand, plastering on his professional-grade, teacher-friendly expression before heading toward the front door. He opens it, and the professional façade is instantly tested.
Two of his students, Arnold and Helga, are standing on his porch, holding a small, foil-wrapped loaf of bread. Arnold is in a simple green sweater and plaid shirt, his signature football-shaped head—which Robert tries very hard not to notice—perfectly visible beneath his blue cap. Helga is beside him, her massive pink bow seeming even more vibrant against the muted November light.
Robert manages to pull his expression back from sheer shock. “Oh, hello, class! What a surprise,” he greets them, his voice adopting the gentle, slightly melodious rhythm he uses for morning announcements.
“Uh, hi, Mr. Simmons,” Arnold says, looking nervous and holding the bread out slightly. “My grandpa sent us to drop off this extra cranberry loaf. Said you didn’t have any last year. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Helga, true to form, remains silent, her brow furrowed in a perpetual state of suspicion, as if Robert’s very existence is a complicated mathematical equation she must immediately solve.
“Oh, that is so thoughtful of Phil. Please tell him thank you,” Robert says, stepping back. He knows he cannot make them leave immediately. They are children. They are his students. “Come in for a moment. Please, step inside out of the cold.”
The two children, surprised, step into the entryway, their sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished linoleum.
“Family, I’d like you to meet two of my very best students,” Robert announces, leading them into the dining room where the three family members are staring with the intensity of animals observing an alien species. “Arnold and Helga. Class, this is my family: my mother, Pearl; my sister, Joy; my uncle, Chuck; and my friend, Peter.”
The word friend leaves Robert’s lips before he can stop it. It is a reflexive, terrified reaction, a primal defense mechanism against the public’s homophobic lens and the inevitable, immediate judgment of his mother and sister. He knows his students are sharp, but he cannot risk the official title in front of his mother’s withering stare. The room is silent. Peter looks hurt, the proud smirk from earlier dissolving into a tense line. Pearl, however, notices the deliberate misdirection instantly, and her expression hardens into outright disdain.
“Robert’s friend is the one who insisted on using garlic in the mashed potatoes,” Pearl announces to the children, her voice dripping with venom, choosing the one topic she knows Peter is sensitive about—his cooking.
Peter immediately snaps back, rising slightly from his chair. “Yes, Pearl, because I have a working set of taste buds, which clearly you do not! I’d apologize for not drowning the dish in butter and salt, but that would just be enabling poor dietary choices!”
“You are just so utterly inappropriate!” Pearl bellows, standing up now, her string of pearls bouncing. “Bringing a knife to a turkey dinner! And now you bring your drama in front of innocent children!”
“Stop talking about him like that!” Peter yells, his voice raw with frustration. “I'm not letting you get away with this kind of behavior, not in Robert's home!”
Arnold and Helga exchange a look, the silent communication of two veteran survivors of domestic strife.
“Excuse me, Mr. Simmons,” Arnold says softly, raising his hand slightly in a reflexive classroom gesture. “Helga and I are going to the kitchen. We can put the loaf away.”
Robert, too paralyzed by the volume and viciousness of the spat to argue, simply nods, waving a shaky hand toward the kitchen archway. The kids quickly retreat. Robert presses his temples, feeling a sudden, blinding headache blossom behind his eyes. After a few seconds, he slowly follows the children, needing a moment of quiet, needing to ensure the chaos has not fully infected them. He stops just out of sight, in the cool, dark hallway leading to the kitchen, and overhears their quiet conversation.
“I guess what I’m saying is, I should’ve just followed my own advice,” Arnold’s voice, small and thoughtful, drifts out of the kitchen. There is the muffled sound of a cellophane bag being opened.
Helga’s voice, surprisingly gentle beneath the usual snark, follows immediately. “Yeah, I mean, if Simmons puts up with his family every year, we can attempt to put up with our own families, football head. This is… this is kind of inspiring, in a depressing way.”
Robert’s heart clenches. His students—his beloved, chaotic, insightful children—are using him as a metric for coping with their own impossible lives. The organizational failure, the temper, the tears, the anxiety, the absolute, total collapse of his Thanksgiving is now a lesson plan. He is being studied, and he has been found wanting.
Robert swallows hard, his throat dry. He steps into the kitchen, offers the children a quick, genuine smile, and silently escorts them back through the hallway. He thanks them again for the loaf, holds the front door open, and watches them descend the porch steps into the deepening November dusk. He closes the door, the latch clicking home with a definitive sound. He does not move. The fighting from the dining room instantly assaults the fragile peace of the hallway, a wall of sound that is even louder than before.
Robert turns slowly, his eyes wide and unfocused, and glances into the dining room.
Uncle Chuck, still gluttonous, has given up on his own plate entirely and is now leaning over Joy, who has finally put down the magazine. Chuck, with a mouth full of sweet potato and turkey, is asking her utterly inappropriate questions about her sex life, his words slurring over the food. Joy is replying with a combination of bored contempt and oversharing, seemingly unaware of the absolute social breakdown.
Peter and Pearl, meanwhile, are standing now, leaning across the table at each other. Their argument has evolved into a horrifying public therapy session.
“You’ve always hated me, and you’ve always been jealous!” Peter shouts, his voice raw with frustration, the red of his sweater seeming to pulsate with his anger. “I’m a better cook than you, and I take better care of your son than you! I give him everything you never could: respect and a home where he doesn’t have to hide who he is!”
Pearl’s face is a mask of pure, unadulterated rage and denial. “I am a wonderful mother!” Pearl shrieks back, the force of her voice vibrating the wine glasses. “You are a pathetic, clinging leech! You live off my son, and you ruin my Thanksgiving!”
Robert doesn't register the words. He presses his back to the cool, painted drywall of the hallway, seeking an anchor. He slides down the wall, the friction of the paint scraping against the fabric of his cardigan, until he is seated on the floor. His head drops forward, his forehead pressing against his knees, and he shakes. He begins to break down, silently, without a sound, as if he is still afraid of being overheard. Hot, heavy tears stream down his face, soaking into the beige wool of his cardigan. The bags under his eyes feel like lead weights, and his vision swims with the pain of his throbbing temples. The realization that his students find his life a tragic inspiration is the final, shattering blow. He is the grown-up, and he is failing. He is a pushover, a doormat, just as his mother said.
He hears a sudden, sharp, heavy sound from the dining room—the unmistakable sound of something glass shattering, followed by a grunt and a muffled curse. Robert cannot bring himself to care. He remains a crumpled, beige mass of failure on the hallway floor.
A few minutes later, Peter storms past the hallway, heading toward the kitchen, his face still taut with fury. He is clearly seeking a broom or a towel to clean up the mess. But he stops short on his return, the cleaning supplies in his hand freezing mid-air as he notices Robert. The protective rage immediately evaporates from Peter’s face, replaced by a devastating wave of tenderness and concern. His heart clenches, a sharp, sympathetic ache in his chest. He drops the broom and the towel and crouches instantly beside his boyfriend, heedless of the glass shards a few feet away.
“Rob?” Peter murmurs, his voice low and shocked, a complete contrast to his screaming match moments before. “Oh, Robert. I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have engaged. I’m sorry I fought her.”
Robert lifts his head, his face a mess of snot and tears, his eyes red and swollen. He shakes his head slowly, miserably. “No,” Robert manages, his voice thick and wet. “No, you don’t have to apologize. You’ve been defending yourself for too long. You’ve been defending me for too long.”
Peter reaches out, his large, tan hand gently stroking the wet hair from Robert’s forehead. He looks deep into Robert’s panicked eyes, his own softening with a tenderness that is never present when Pearl is near. He is no longer the man who yells; he is the man who stays.
“Can I kiss you?” Peter asks, the question a quiet, reverent offering in the middle of the shattering noise, a small attempt at reclaiming intimacy from the wreckage.
Robert gives a choked, self-deprecating laugh. “What, now? I’m all snotty and wet and disgusting. I’m awful.”
Peter moves closer, his red sweater brushing Robert’s cardigan. He uses the low, firm voice that Robert knows means absolute, unshakeable truth. “You could never be disgusting. Never.”
Robert nods, a barely perceptible dip of his chin. Peter leans in. He uses the pad of his thumb to gently hold Robert’s chin, tilting his face up. He softly kisses Robert’s lips, tasting the salt and distress, then moves to the dark, exhausted bags under his eyes. He presses a soft, lingering kiss onto Robert’s temple, the spot he knows must be throbbing with a murderous headache. He returns to Robert’s lips, kissing him again, licking away the trails of salty tears that have traveled down the corners of his mouth, making sure Robert feels only softness. He lowers his head, mouthing along the tense line of Robert’s jaw and kissing the prominent dip of his Adam’s apple.
The intimacy is a life raft in the turbulent water of the family argument.
The moment is shattered by the return of Robert’s sister. Joy shuffles into the hallway, still holding the car magazine, looking for the broom that Peter dropped. She stops, seeing Peter’s face buried in Robert’s neck, his arm wrapped around his boyfriend’s back. Joy doesn't register the tear tracks or the sheer physical tremor of her brother’s stress and panic. She only sees the public affection. She scoffs—a long, slow, contemptuous sound that drips with manufactured disgust.
“Oh, seriously?” Joy drawls, her eyes wide and disgusted. “Must you two be so utterly inappropriate? Right here? In the hallway? Get a room. Some of us are trying to recover from almost choking on a turkey bone, which, by the way, you caused.” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She turns her head and calls toward the dining room, the malice and jealousy in her voice perfectly clear. “Mom! Peter is mauling Robert! They’re inappropriate!”
Pearl’s voice, suddenly reinvigorated, explodes from the dining room like a mortar shell. “See, Robert? See what you allow into this house? The indecency! The lack of class! Get him out, Robert!”
Robert has had enough.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Robert shakily gets to his feet. Peter immediately rises with him, his countenance changing instantly from tenderness back to a hard, protective stance, his hands ready to physically shield Robert if necessary. It is appreciated, but no longer needed. The last of Robert’s meekness has been scorched away. Robert walks into the dining room, his body straight, his hands tucked tightly into his pockets. He stands before the table, looking at the three people who are supposed to be his family. The quiet authority in his voice—the one he saves for when a class has gone completely off the rails—commands immediate silence.
“Get out,” Robert says, his voice low, steady, and utterly devoid of emotion.
Joy’s magazine drops to the floor. Chuck stops chewing. Pearl stares, stunned.
“Robert, don’t be ridiculous,” Pearl scoffs.
“You are ruining Thanksgiving,” Robert states, his voice rising, the stress finally finding a path out through rage, but a controlled, precise rage. He points at his mother, his finger shaking slightly. “Mom, you have spent the entire afternoon belittling my life choices, insulting the man I love, and using your privilege as a weapon against someone who has only ever been kind to you. You claim to hate tradition, yet you use the one day we do have together to perform your toxic rituals.”
He turns to Joy, whose eyes are wide with surprise. “And you, Joy, you are so afraid of commitment that you’d rather choke on a turkey bone than say a five-second prayer. You have no job, no ambition, and yet you feel superior to a person who cooks every night, pays half the rent, and saved your life fifteen minutes ago. You only find joy in misery, and you infect this house with it.”
He looks at Chuck, whose face is covered in a mixture of confusion and gravy. “And you, Uncle Chuck, you have done nothing but eat off other people’s plates and ask disgusting, inappropriate questions of your niece. You have contributed nothing but gluttony and filth to this event.”
Robert takes a deep, ragged breath. He stands before them, the doormat no more, his authority palpable.
“This is my home. Peter is my family,” Robert says, his voice now cracking with deep sincerity. “You are all ruining this. You are ruining my holiday. You are ruining my peace. You are ruining the spirit of everything I believe in about people being special. If you do not clean up your acts, if you do not find a way to welcome Peter as part of this family, then don’t bother coming back for Christmas. Don’t call. Don’t visit. Leave.”
Joy, completely incensed, her laziness momentarily overcome by fury, grabs her coat and storms out the front door without another word, the wood slamming behind her. Uncle Chuck, ever focused on his stomach, looks up, his eyes pleading.
“But… can I get a to-go box, Robert?” he asks.
“No, Chuck. Leave.”
Chuck sighs dramatically, grabs a piece of bread, stuffs it into his pocket, and lumbers toward the front door.
Pearl watches her son, a sneering smirk returning to her lips, a final attempt to undermine his strength. She walks slowly toward the door, picking up her handbag. “You’re a doormat, dear,” she says, her voice dripping with superior pity. “You’ll cave. You always do. And it’s not like you’re marrying this man, Robert. It’s just a ridiculous phase.”
Peter opens his mouth, ready to deliver a scathing, final remark, but Robert holds up a hand, silencing him. Robert meets his mother’s gaze, his eyes tired but firm.
“And when I do?” Robert asks, the question hanging in the air, a shocking, unexpected declaration that even stuns Peter.
Pearl freezes, her hand on the doorknob. “What does that mean? When?”
Robert’s voice is steady now, resonating with a certainty he has never possessed before. “It means, Mom, that I will propose to Peter,” he states clearly, looking directly at his shocked boyfriend. “We will get married. He is already my family. He is so much more my family than anyone in my bloodline. And if you can’t accept that—if you can’t accept him—then we aren’t family anymore, and you won’t be welcome here anymore.”
Pearl is stunned into actual silence. She grabs her bag, walks out the door, and slams it shut with a resounding finality that shakes the windows. Robert walks over to the door, his heart hammering in his chest, and throws the deadbolt. He locks it. He turns back to face the wreckage of the dining room.
Peter walks slowly toward him, his face a mixture of shock, pride, and overwhelming tenderness. The argument is forgotten; the broken glass and spilled wine are irrelevant. “You really mean that?” Peter whispers, his hands reaching up to cup Robert’s tear-stained face. “I’m your family? You mean that about the marriage?”
Robert leans into the warmth of Peter’s hands. He smiles through the last of his tears, a genuine, relieved, teacher-worthy smile. “Absolutely. I love you so much.”
Peter pulls his boyfriend into a tight embrace, burying his face in Robert’s balding hair. The scent of wine and stress gives way to the simple comfort of his body. “I love you, too.”