The highway lights blurred past the windshield as Adam drove faster than he probably should have.
Streetlamps streaked into gold lines against the dark, the engine humming steadily beneath his hands. One palm rested on the steering wheel, the other drummed anxiously against his thigh.
The meadow still clung to him—the smell of grass, the quiet, Kara's weight, her laugh. He shook his head once, forcing himself back into the present.
Focus.
The airport loomed ahead, all glass and steel, glowing against the night like a small city that never slept. Planes roared overhead, their engines rattling Adam's chest as he pulled into the arrivals lane and parked.
He cut the engine and leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "You've got this."
The sliding doors opened and closed endlessly, spilling people out in waves—families hugging, couples reuniting, business travelers dragging suitcases with tired expressions. Adam scanned every face, nerves coiling tighter with each second.
Then he saw her.
His mom stood just beyond the doors, wrapped in a long beige coat, a soft scarf tucked neatly around her neck.
She looked smaller than he remembered—thinner—but her posture was still straight, her smile still warm. A suitcase rested beside her, her hand loosely gripping the handle.
Next to her stood his father.
Tall. Broad. Shoulders squared like he was still decades younger than he actually was.
His hair was more gray than black now, but his presence filled the space around him effortlessly. His jaw was set in its usual stern line as he scanned the area, eyes sharp and assessing.
Adam stepped out of the car.
"Mom," he said quietly.
Her face lit up instantly.
"Adam," she breathed.
She moved faster than he expected, pulling him into a hug before he could even react. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, her cheek pressing into his shoulder.
"You got taller," she said softly, laughing. "Or maybe I got smaller."
Adam swallowed, hugging her back carefully, afraid—always afraid—of squeezing too hard.
"I missed you," he said.
"I missed you too," she replied, pulling back just enough to cup his face with both hands.
Her eyes scanned him immediately—his jaw, the faint discoloration beneath the bandage still clinging stubbornly to his cheek.
Her smile faltered.
"…What happened?"
Adam stiffened.
Before he could answer, his father stepped closer.
"What happened to your face?" his dad asked, voice low and even.
Adam straightened instinctively. "Nothing serious. School stuff."
His father's gaze lingered, unreadable.
"You've been getting into trouble."
It wasn't a question.
Adam's mom touched his arm gently.
"Richard," she said quietly. "Later."
His father exhaled through his nose but didn't argue.
They loaded the suitcases into the trunk in silence. Adam's mom watched him the entire time, her concern never fully leaving her eyes.
Once inside the car, she adjusted the heater and sighed contentedly. "It's colder than I remembered," she said. "Spring used to be warmer."
Adam smiled faintly. "You say that every year."
"Because it's always true," she replied, smiling back.
His father sat rigidly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring straight ahead as Adam pulled back onto the road.
"So," his mom said gently after a moment. "How's school?"
Adam hesitated. "Good. Busy."
"And football?"
"Still playing."
She nodded, satisfied, then glanced at him sideways. "You look… happier."
The word caught him off guard.
"I—" He paused. "I think I am."
His father shifted slightly but said nothing.
They drove the rest of the way quietly, city lights giving way to darker streets lined with trees. When they finally pulled into the driveway, Adam cut the engine and sat for a second, staring at the house.
Home.
Inside, Alfred was already waiting.
"Welcome back, sir. Ma'am," the butler said warmly, taking the luggage. "We're pleased to have you home."
Adam's mom smiled. "It's good to be back."
She turned to Adam once more before heading inside. "You're doing okay," she said softly. "I can see it."
Adam watched her disappear down the hallway, his chest tightening.
Behind him, his father spoke.
"You're acting strange. Tense," he said.
Adam turned slowly.
His father's expression was serious—but not angry.
"Just remember to not be a burden to your sick mother. Real men never make excuses for problems they caused," his dad added.
Adam nodded. "I won't."
But as he went upstairs that night, phone buzzing softly in his pocket with an unread message from Kara, Adam realized something unsettling and hopeful all at once.
He wasn't the same person anymore.
He didn't want to be that person anymore.