CHAPTER 156: THE MIDDLE SEAT

The evening carried a hush, the kind that wrapped itself around the house after a long day. Shadows stretched long across the walls, softened by the amber glow of a single lamp. At the low wooden table, Noel and his mother sat side by side, peeling fruit. The faint scrape of knives against rinds filled the silence, mingling with the steady tick of the wall clock and the whisper of the wind brushing against the curtains.

Juice slipped down Noel’s knuckle when his grip faltered. He hissed softly, shaking his hand. His mother glanced up, her lips curving into the quiet smile that had always carried more warmth than words.

"Still rushing, hm? The fruit isn’t going anywhere," she teased, sliding a perfectly carved crescent into the bowl with graceful ease.

Noel huffed a laugh, wiping his hand on a napkin. "Guess I’m just impatient." His eyes lingered on her hands—steady, practiced, unhurried—as though time bent itself to her rhythm.

The hallway door creaked open. The faint smell of old books drifted in with Noel’s father as he stepped inside, a library bag slung over his shoulder. Evening air clung to his clothes, cool and crisp. He paused at the doorway, adjusting his glasses, gaze falling on the growing pile of bright fruit in the bowl.

"Well, I see I came back just in time," he said, setting the bag down with a soft thud. "If I don’t hurry, you’ll leave me nothing but peels."

Noel’s mother rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her. "Then sit, old man, and make yourself useful. Your son still hasn’t learned to cut straight."

"Hey!" Noel groaned, though laughter cracked through his protest, easing the edges of the day.

His father chuckled at his wife’s jab, then disappeared into the bedroom. The sound of hangers clinking carried faintly down the hall as he changed out of his work clothes. When he returned, sleeves rolled and hair slightly mussed, he looked less like the stern man who had left that morning and more like home.

He slid onto the mat beside Noel, reaching for a knife. "Alright then, show me what disaster you’ve made of this fruit."

Noel nudged the half-peeled orange toward him. "Here. Let’s see you fix it."

His father examined the uneven surface, lips twitching. "This poor orange looks like it fought a battle."

"That’s because it did," Noel shot back smugly. "And I won."

His mother clicked her tongue. "Honestly, between the two of you, the fruit has no chance." She placed a perfect slice into Noel’s hand the way she used to when he was a boy.

Heat rushed to Noel’s cheeks. He accepted it silently, chewing around the lump in his throat.

His father ruffled his hair with a still-damp hand. "Eat. At least you’ll grow straighter than your peel lines."

Their laughter rose into the stillness, soft and unhurried, the kind of warmth that didn’t need naming. It lived in the little room, around the low table, in the teasing and the small touches they didn’t think twice about.

Later, the fruit bowl traveled with them into the living room, balanced carefully between them as if it were a treasure.

The couch sagged under their weight as the three settled in—a familiar tangle of knees and elbows that hadn’t changed much since Noel’s childhood.

The only difference was that instead of sprawling across their laps like a spoiled prince, he now sat wedged between them, grown but still theirs.

His father flicked a slice of orange at him. "Back then, you’d fall asleep halfway through the opening credits. Now look at you—hogging the middle seat."

"I earned it," Noel said, catching the slice and popping it into his mouth. "Seniority rights."

"Seniority?" His mother arched an eyebrow. "If I recall, you used to beg for space and then kick both of us until you had the whole couch."

"That never happened," Noel smirked. "Fabricated history."

"Fabricated, my foot," his father retorted, dragging him into a loose headlock. "You’d sprawl out like a starfish and drool all over the cushions."

"Exaggeration!" Noel laughed, wriggling free though not really resisting. "You’re rewriting the past just to slander me."

His mother slipped a grape into his palm before he could retaliate. "Eat, before you turn this into a full courtroom drama."

The movie flickered across their faces, its dialogue weaving between bursts of laughter and teasing.

Every so often, a hand darted into the fruit bowl, followed by another story about Noel’s stubborn habits—his tantrums, his endless energy, the way he used to climb onto their laps and refuse to move.

Now he sat taller, shoulders broader, but the warmth pressing against him from both sides felt unchanged.

If anything, time had deepened it.

Their presence filled him, rich and steady, grounding him in a way words never could.

"Next time," his father said solemnly, "we’re watching cartoons. Maybe then you’ll finally admit you never stayed awake past the theme song."

Leaning back, Noel grinned at the ceiling. "Fine. But I’m not sitting in your laps anymore."

"Who asked you to?" his mother teased, swatting his knee. "You wouldn’t fit even if you tried."

The three dissolved into laughter, fruit bowl steadily emptying, the movie forgotten. It felt as though the night had been waiting years to return to them like this.

Another film began, light flickering across the room in shifting colors.

Noel leaned back, stretched comfortably between his parents.

A half-empty bowl of mango sat on his lap.

"You didn’t peel these properly," his mother said, plucking a piece. "All crooked."

"They still taste good," Noel muttered, chewing.

His father chuckled, eyes on the screen. "He always used to eat the ugliest pieces first, remember? Said they needed saving."

Noel groaned. "Dad—don’t."

"Oh, don’t worry," his mom smirked, "we have a whole library of Noel-stories." She leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder. "Like the time he fell asleep right here, clutching the remote like treasure."

"And drooled on my lap," his dad added cheerfully.

"Okay, okay!" Noel shoved a mango slice in his mouth to stop them, cheeks burning.

His mother poked his side gently. "Look at him—still the same boy, just taller. You’ll always be our middle seat."

Noel sighed, though a smile tugged at his lips. He let himself sink deeper, surrounded by their warmth. For a while, it felt like time hadn’t moved at all.

That night, Luca lay sprawled across his dorm bed, phone still warm in his hand.

The ceiling blurred above him as his mind painted a different picture.

Not the cramped dorm with thin walls and curfews. Not the muffled footsteps in the hall. But a place of their own.

He could see it as if it already existed: a small apartment, sunlight spilling through half-open blinds.

Two mugs left on the counter, Noel’s messy handwriting on a note stuck to the fridge.

A laundry basket with both their clothes tangled together.

The couch was too small, but that was the point—Noel’s legs thrown across his lap while they argued over what to watch.

Quiet mornings with Noel’s messy hair tickling his cheek, both of them pretending the world could wait another hour.

A smile curved Luca’s lips before he realized it. He could almost hear Noel laughing in the next room. Almost feel his weight beside him.

It was ordinary, almost painfully so. And yet, it felt like a miracle. Not fireworks, not grand declarations—just home. Just them.

And lying there, Luca decided he’d hold on to that vision. No matter how long it took, he’d build it for them.

Padding into the bathroom, he stood barefoot on the cool tiles.

Toothpaste foamed on his tongue as he brushed distractedly, eyes fixed on the mirror.

He looked the same—messy hair, faint shadows under his eyes—but something inside hummed with quiet determination.

Our own place. The thought came again, curling warm around his chest.

He rinsed, splashed cold water on his face. Droplets clung to his lashes, but the grin on his lips refused to fade.

No curfews. No thin dorm walls. No hushed voices or sneaking glances.

Just them—coming home from work, tossing keys onto the counter, bickering about dinner, falling asleep with laughter lingering in the air.

"You’re ridiculous," he muttered at his reflection, but the blush spreading across his cheeks betrayed him.

Back in bed, he tugged the sheets up to his chin, chest rising with a restless rhythm. Someday soon. Just us.

He pictured Noel stealing the blankets, leaving books everywhere, complaining about his cooking but eating every bite anyway.

The ache in his chest softened into something warm.

Burying his face in the pillow, he let a quiet laugh slip out.

Sleep found him with Noel’s name still circling in his mind—soft, steady, like a promise he intended to keep.

The night held him there, wrapped in the certainty of that imagined home, until even the ache of longing eased into something steady—something that waited with him for tomorrow.