Chapter 163: Chapter 163

The kitchen buzzed with soft laughter and clinking spoons. Camila had kicked off her shoes, feet curled under her on the chair, her elbow bumping into Billy’s every few seconds as she reached across him for another bite she didn’t bother to ask permission for.

"Seriously," Billy groaned, nudging her back with a gentle shove. "You have your own plate."

Camila grinned. "Yeah, but yours tastes better."

Artur smiled quietly beside him, head down as he stirred his food, but the warmth in his eyes gave him away.

He wasn’t used to this—messy, casual affection—but he was taking it in like sunlight after a long winter.

"Oh, and by the way," Camila said, looking directly at Artur now, "when he gets grumpy in the morning, just toss a pillow at him. He pretends to hate it, but it resets his whole system."

Artur chuckled. "Noted."

Billy squinted at her. "I’m literally right here."

Luciana sipped her wine calmly. "And now you see how it’s been for me for years."

They all laughed again, a chorus that filled the house—not forced, not polite. Real.

At the edge of the hallway, just out of the soft light spilling from the dining room, Carlos stood quietly.

His arms were folded, one hand resting against the doorframe.

He wasn’t wearing the tight frown from earlier. Instead, his eyes moved slowly from Billy’s relaxed posture to Camila’s bright grin, and finally to the way Artur’s hand brushed lightly against Billy’s under the table, as if grounding him.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt. Just watched.

Luciana noticed him but didn’t call him over. She only offered a gentle nod across the room. A silent invitation, should he be ready.

Carlos didn’t return it, not yet. But he didn’t leave either.

Camila leaned closer to Billy, her voice dropping to a mock-whisper. "You know Mom’s already planning a second plate for him, right?"

Billy whispered back, "You think he’ll actually eat with us next time?"

Camila smiled. "Maybe not tonight. But soon."

Artur looked up, his eyes following Billy’s for a second before turning back to his meal.

He said nothing—but his hand remained against Billy’s, thumb tracing once, slow and steady.

The house was quiet, but no longer heavy.

Upstairs, the hallway was dim, lined with family pictures that had faded at the edges.

Billy slowed near one—an old photo of him and Camila at the beach, younger, faces flushed with sun and laughter. His fingers brushed the frame before he moved on.

The bedroom door clicked softly shut behind them. Artur stood just inside, uncertain for a second.

Billy turned to face him. "You okay?"

Artur nodded. "Yeah. Just... it’s a lot."

Billy stepped closer, his hand reaching to tuck back a strand of Artur’s hair. "You did good, you know."

Artur smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Billy tilted his head. "What is it?"

Artur hesitated, then admitted, "I didn’t expect any of this. Your mom... Camila... even your dad, just standing there, watching us like that."

Billy swallowed, then gently took his hand, leading him toward the bed. They sat down together, side by side. The mattress dipped quietly beneath their weight.

"I used to dream about moments ," Billy said softly. "Coming home, being myself. Not hiding. But I never thought I’d bring someone like you with me."

Artur turned to him, his gaze steady now. "Do you regret it?"

Billy’s voice caught a little. "No. Never."

Artur leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Billy’s. Their breaths mingled in the quiet space between words.

"I was scared," Billy whispered. "Scared he’d never look at me the same way again. That I’d never be enough for him... or for anyone. But tonight, sitting at that table... you felt like home."

Artur’s hand slid up to cradle Billy’s cheek. "You are enough. You always were."

Billy’s eyes shimmered, but he blinked the tears back and smiled. "If you keep saying things like that, I’m going to lose my ’cool guy’ status forever."

Artur laughed, low and soft. "Too late."

They lay back together, the covers drawn up loosely. Artur’s arm slipped around Billy’s waist, fingers resting over his heartbeat like he was holding something fragile but steady.

The night outside was quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. And in that silence, Billy finally felt it—

He wasn’t just accepted.

He was seen. And for the first time, it felt like enough.

The kitchen smelled of tomatoes and toast—warm, familiar.

Early morning sunlight filtered in through the half-drawn curtains, painting the kitchen tiles in soft gold.

Billy stood by the counter, slicing avocados with practiced ease. His mother moved behind him, humming softly as she stirred a pot on the stove.

"You always did wake up hungry," she said with a smile, glancing over her shoulder.

Billy chuckled. "Blame Artur. He barely ate last night, now I’m starving for both of us."

She laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "I like him," she said, almost casually. "He’s gentle. And the way he looks at you..."

Billy glanced down, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. "He stayed. Through the hardest part."

She placed a hand on his arm, firm and sure. "That means something."

He nodded, pressing his lips together. "I want this, Mom. I want a life with him. I know Dad’s still... processing. But I’m not afraid anymore."

She squeezed his arm gently. "Your father’s learning. It takes time, son. But you — you don’t need to wait for anyone’s approval to love fully."

Footsteps echoed faintly from the staircase, and Billy turned.

Artur appeared in the doorway, hair tousled, shirt slightly wrinkled from sleep. His eyes landed on Billy, and for a moment, everything else fell quiet.

"Morning," he murmured, rubbing his neck.

Billy smiled, sliding a plate onto the table. "Sit. I made your favorite."

"Avocado toast with chili flakes?" Artur smirked.

"With too much lemon," Billy teased. "Just how you pretend you hate it."

Artur sat beside him, close, knees brushing under the table. His mom placed a steaming mug in front of him. "Good morning, Artur. Hope you slept well."

"Very well, thank you," Artur replied politely, but with warmth.

Just then, from the hallway, a voice called—

"Something smells like happiness in here."

Camila entered, stretching in her robe, her hair tied in a high bun. She sniffed the air dramatically. "Smells like fresh bread... and a suspicious amount of emotional growth."

Billy threw a piece of toast at her. "Sit down, menace."

Camila laughed, catching the toast mid-air and biting into it. "Dad’s already in the garden, by the way. He was out there before sunrise."

Billy’s smile faltered just slightly. He glanced toward the window, the garden visible through the glass. His father’s figure was bent near the orange tree, quietly pruning.

"I’ll talk to him," he said softly.

Artur reached under the table, his fingers curling around Billy’s.

"You don’t have to go alone," Artur whispered.

Billy turned, and in his eyes, there was something sure and quiet — something that had taken months of pain and healing to grow.

"No," he said. "But I want him to see me as I am. As we are."

His mother placed one last plate down and kissed the top of his head.

"Then go," she said. "The rest of us will be here when you come back."

Billy stepped out into the garden, the early breeze brushing his skin, sunlight softening the edges of the morning.

He spotted his father crouched near the orange tree, pruning shears in hand, his movements slow but focused.

"Morning," Billy said, his voice quiet but steady.

Carlos glanced over his shoulder. "Morning."

Billy walked closer, pausing beside the flowerbed. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Only the rustle of leaves and the chirping of distant birds filled the silence.

"I made breakfast," Billy said after a pause. "Mom helped. Artur’s up too. Camila’s already bullying everyone."

Carlos gave a quiet huff, more breath than laugh. "That girl never changes."

Billy smiled, toeing the earth gently with his shoe. "You should come inside."

His father didn’t answer immediately. He clipped one last branch, straightened up, then looked at Billy — really looked at him.

There was no harshness now. No lingering bite in his voice. Just a quiet man standing in the half-light—older, unsure, but trying.

Carlos kept his eyes on Billy, searching his face as if trying to read years of silence all at once.

"He treats you right?" he asked, his voice low and gruff, but not unkind.

Billy didn’t hesitate. "Better than I ever knew to expect."

A flicker of something passed across Carlos’s face—regret, maybe, or the weight of all the things he hadn’t known how to say. He looked away for a beat, then back again. His jaw worked once before he exhaled, slow and deep, like it came from somewhere buried.

"Then... that’s what matters, right?"

Billy blinked, not because he was surprised by the words—but by how much they meant coming from him. They landed softly, like a door that had always been locked finally giving way.

He stepped closer, careful and calm, and reached out—his hand resting on his father’s shoulder. Not with force. Just connection.

Carlos didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. He just stood there, steady under his son’s touch.

"Come inside," Billy said again, quieter this time, the edge gone from his voice. It wasn’t a request. It was an invitation.

Carlos held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a small nod. "Alright."

And with that simple word, they turned—two men who’d lived through silence and distance—walking side by side toward the house. Not all wounds were healed, but something important had shifted. The space between them wasn’t quite so wide anymore.