The front door swung open with an eerie creak, like the gates of judgment had been waiting just for us.
There he was—Dad. Towering, unsmiling, and armed with a glare that could make the sun retreat behind a cloud. His eyes locked on Leo like he was a suspicious new suitor in a medieval drama. No "hello." No "good to see you." Just pure, unfiltered dad-energy.
"You're Leo Cyprus," he said, not a question—more like a verbal finger poke to the chest.
Leo, ever the gentleman, stepped forward with a charming smile and extended a hand. "Yes, sir. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
Dad looked at Leo's hand like it had insulted his favorite fishing rod. He didn't shake it. He didn't move. He just stared.
I nudged Leo's elbow gently. He pulled his hand back smoothly and added, "I brought you some smoked ribs I prepared myself. I heard you like barbecue."
Dad finally blinked. "You think you can win me over with meat?" he said, voice low.
Leo grinned. "Not win, sir. Earn. There's a difference."
Oh wow, I thought. Bold choice.
Mom appeared behind Dad, whispering something in his ear with a not-so-subtle elbow to his ribs. He grunted and opened the door wider.
Mom stepped forward like a ray of sunshine breaking through a storm cloud. "Goodness, you must be Leo," she said, gently sliding between Dad and the doorframe with practiced grace. Her eyes lit up as she looked him up and down, hands clasped like she'd just spotted a celebrity on sale at the farmer's market. "Well, aren't you handsome. Melody, you didn't tell me he was this charming!"
Leo chuckled softly, clearly caught off guard by the compliment, but in the best way. "Thank you, Ma'am. That's very kind of you."
"Oh, none of that ma'am business—just call me Mom," she said, looping her arm through his like they were already shopping for groceries together. "Come in, come in. You both look exhausted! Did you get stuck in traffic?"
I nodded, relieved, as I stepped inside and slipped off my shoes. "Ugh, you wouldn't believe how many times we stopped. I think Leo memorized every gas station snack aisle from here to Talon's Town."
Leo let out a sheepish laugh. "And your daughter is very picky with her chips."
"Because I don't like crumbs on my hoodie," I defended with a playful glare. "Also, stop bringing that up."
Mom just shook her head with a laugh and gave Leo's arm a gentle pat before ushering him further inside. "Well, I hope you both brought an appetite. I made baked ziti with homemade meatballs—your favorite, sweetheart."
My stomach practically did a happy dance at the mention. "You're the best, Mom."
Behind us, Dad stood like a scowling statue, arms crossed, the smoked ribs now tucked under one arm like a forgotten offering.
Mom turned back with a saccharine smile, eyes narrowing just a little as she shot a look at Dad sharp enough to slice onions. "Victor, don't just stand there looking like you're auditioning for a villain role. Be polite. They've had a long trip."
Dad gave a grunt that could've meant anything from "Fine" to "I'm still watching you, meat boy."
But the tension softened just enough.
I exchanged a glance with Leo—his shoulders finally lowering a little, and the smallest smirk playing at his lips.
"Don't worry," I whispered as we followed Mom inside. "You survived the front door boss. Now we just have to clear the dining table level."
Leo leaned toward me and whispered back, "Do I at least get a save point?"
I snorted. "Only if you beat Dad's 'interrogation over baked ziti' mini-game."
"Hard mode already?" he groaned under his breath.
And with that, the atmosphere felt lighter. Warmer. Like maybe—just maybe—we were going to make it through this with our hearts (mostly) intact.
Just as I was about to claim the comfiest couch spot in the living room, Mom peeked out from the kitchen and called, "Victor, can you fire up the grill outside? The ziti's in the oven, but we've still got Leo's ribs—and I don't want those going to waste."
Dad grunted. "Tsk. I'll do it."
He started marching toward the back patio like he was going to battle rather than barbecue.
Before I could even blink, Leo stood up. "Sir—I mean, Dad—uh, Mr. Violet… I'd be happy to help. I can show you how I smoked those ribs."
Dad paused mid-step, looked over his shoulder like Leo just offered to babysit a dragon, and squinted at him. "You know how to grill?"
Leo smiled, calm as ever. "Yes, sir. I've been practicing since college. It helps me relax."
Dad muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Hm, we'll see about that," but didn't object. That, in Victor Violet language, was practically a welcome mat.
"Let's see what you've got then, grill master."
And thus began what I now call: The Barbecue Trials of Leo Cyprus.
Trial 1: The Grill of Doom
Leo was ushered into the backyard, where Dad's sacred grill stood like a shrine. "You touch it, you better respect it," Dad muttered, arms crossed.
Leo, with the confidence of a man who once survived a boardroom full of angry CEOs, nodded. "Yes, sir."
I watched nervously as he prepped the grill like he was on a cooking competition show, while Dad stood five feet away—arms crossed, one brow twitching every time Leo reached for something.
"Don't flip it yet," Dad warned.
"I wasn't going to."
"Yes, you were."
"No, sir. I was just checking the sear."
Tension. So much tension. Even the dog refused to come out.
Trial 2: The Interrogation Table
Dinner was served. The ribs were perfection—glazed, smoked, juicy. Mom's eyes lit up at the first bite.
Dad took his first chew... paused… chewed again… then narrowed his eyes at Leo.
"So, what are your intentions with my daughter?"
Classic line. Ten points, Dad.
Leo placed his fork down, calmly, politely. "To love her, protect her, and support her in everything she does, sir."
Dad squinted. "And if she breaks your heart?"
"She won't," Leo said gently, looking at me with soft eyes. "But if she ever did, I'd still be grateful I got to love her at all."
I choked on my water.
Mom clutched her chest. "Ay, anak..."
Dad stared like Leo had just spoken an alien language. "You... trying to romance me, son?"
Leo grinned. "Is it working?"
Bold again. I gave him mental points.
Trial 3: The Backyard Duel (a.k.a. basketball)
After dinner, Dad suddenly grabbed a basketball and threw it at Leo. "One-on-one. If you lose, you wash the dishes and repaint the fence."
Leo caught the ball and nodded. "Game on."
I watched them for what felt like forever. My dad moved like a man twenty years younger, blocking, charging, trash-talking like he was in the NBA playoffs.
Leo didn't back down. Even when he got elbowed.
Even when Dad fake-tripped and tried to pin it on him.
Even when he was sweating like a turkey in November.
He just laughed, stayed polite, and never once snapped.
In the end, Leo lost by one point. And still said, "Best game I've played in years."
Dad, still panting, muttered, "Hmph. Not bad. For a city boy."