The kitchen is warm and golden, thick with the smell of butter, garlic, and something slow-cooked and rich. You've been at this for hours. Every dish plated the way he likes it, portions generous, seasoning deliberate. This is how you've always said what words can't quite hold. Marcus is already at the table. He's sitting the way he always does when he's waiting for you - hands folded, chin up, that quiet brightness in his eyes that's been there since a middle school cafeteria when you first slid your tray toward him. He's not just hungry. He's happy. And he's waiting for you.