The automatic doors parted with a soft hiss.
Out stepped Mother and Father, bathed in the sleepy golden glow of late afternoon.
The scent of fresh asphalt rose beneath their feet, warmed by the day's sun. Plastic bags rustled softly in Father's hand, while Mother's new clothes swayed gently with each step—silky fabric whispering secrets only she could hear.
Her curly hair bounced in rhythm with her strides, and her sandals clicked against the pavement in a melody that sounded suspiciously like victory.
Father, in his mind, glancing at the car in the distance:
"I think I shouldn't have left 777 and Tobey alone together... I feel the gravitational pull of chaos."
Mother, nudging him playfully as they neared the car:
"I can't wait to eat something cooked by you tonight."
Father, deadpan, with a smirk curling in his voice:
"Then lower your expectations now so the flavor hits harder later."
Beat.
"Besides, if I'd known we were feeding royalty tonight, I would've packed powdered sarcasm and pre-boiled charm."
[Narrator, as if leaning in with a teacup]
Ah yes, love. Where the flames of passion are fueled by gas stoves and casual insult.
Mother, laughing, bumping his shoulder:
"Just don't burn the kitchen down."
Father:
"No promises. But I will burn something… probably my dignity."
The supermarket doors sighed open behind them. Plastic bags crinkled as they walked across the parking lot—Mother cradling her newly chosen clothes with all the satisfaction of a general returning from a victorious campaign.
The evening breeze curled around them, gentle and soft, carrying the scent of pavement still holding the day's warmth. Neon lights flickered above the store's entrance, buzzing faintly like tired fireflies.
Their hands brushed again.
Father opened the car door for her—not out of show, but out of rhythm. A habit forged between escape routes and whispered I-love-yous during comms blackouts. A soft, steady kind of love.
And just for a moment—
Between the sound of distant shopping carts and the hum of the sky winding down—
It felt like peace.
Inside the car, 777 leaned back, sunglasses still on even though the sun had dipped low. He watched as Father opened the door for Mother, raising his brows with mock reverence.
777, to Tobey, nodding in approval:
"Aaah, I see… the man of culture."
Tobey, in his mind, squinting:
"Man of culture? Is that… code? Spy slang? A secret password?"
Mother, slipping into the seat gracefully, glancing back at them:
"You two look like you've been having fun."
Father, sliding in, buckling up with that half-smile of his:
"How was the interrogation?"
Tobey glanced out the window, then back at [Father].
Father:
"Let's head home. 777—catch up in your… uh… mighty steed."
[Narrator, deadpan]
And there it was. The moment of truth. The great reveal.
777 saluted like a soldier, then jumped out of the car.
All eyes turned toward his "vehicle."
And then it came.
Like a prophecy made ridiculous—
He appeared over the hill on a pastel blue Vespa, wearing a blinding yellow helmet that looked like it had been rejected from a Minions on Ice circus tour.
His scarf flapped dramatically. Too dramatically.
The engine buzzed like a bumblebee.
[Narrator, dramatic whisper]
Tragedy, thy name is style.
Father, deadpan as he lowered the window:
"A Vespa, huh? That thing's the godfather of scooters—and you? You're out here disrespecting it like it owes you child support."
Mother and Tobeylost it—laughing in stereo, their joy echoing in the quiet parking lot.
The car engine purred to life.
Soft jazz fluttered from the speakers—something mellow, vintage, the kind that wraps around your thoughts like a blanket you forgot you needed.
Mother hummed to it absentmindedly while adjusting the air vents.
Father gripped the wheel—not tightly, but deliberately, like a man always calculating five moves ahead.
Mother, glancing back at Tobey with a gentle smile:
"So… what did you ask 777?"
Tobey stared at the passing streetlights, unsure. His hand shifted in his lap.
Tobey, in his mind:
"What do I even say? Why am I hesitating now…"
Tobey, quietly:
"I… I asked about your past."
Mother turned forward again, her reflection visible in the window glass—her expression unreadable, but soft.
Her voice, when it came, was quieter. Not sad…
Something gentler. Like grief that had long since settled, but never really left.
Mother, with a distant tone, not breaking her gaze out the window:
"I wish I had a past to tell you. But I don't remember. Just… shadows."
(A beat.)
"I remember the warm things. The soft things. Like the laughter… and the way your father's voice sounds when he talks in his sleep."
(She smiled faintly.)
"Those are the pieces I've kept."
Father, in his mind, jaw tight but eyes soft:
"She's hiding it. To protect him.
She doesn't want to put the weight of her pain on our son.
She's shielding him with smiles again."
The road stretched ahead, golden dusk painting the windshield in glows and ghosts of the day fading.
For a few heartbeats, no one spoke.
No jazz, no small talk—just the sound of tires humming on old asphalt and the quiet rhythm of thoughts kept in silence.
And in that pause—
Everything said too much.
—
The car pulled into the driveway as the sun bowed behind the horizon, painting their house in hues of fading gold and rising shadow. The porch light flickered on with a soft click, catching dust motes in its halo.
Doors opened. Shoes scuffed against the driveway.
Rick, setting the bags down:
"You both go ahead. Get some rest. I need a quick word with 777."
Mother & Tobey, in sync:
"Yes."
They walked up the steps. The front door opened and closed with a soft creak—home, at last.
Rick, folding his arms, turning to 777 with that familiar steel behind his glasses:
"What did you tell Tobey?"
777, stretching like someone clocking out of spy duty:
"Nothing much. Just some backstory. How we worked together. How you met Shalit."
Rick, sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose:
"Tobey's too young for that."
777, shrugging with all the confidence of someone who's dodged more bullets than questions:
"Don't worry. I've got experience with kids."
Rick, dry:
"Right. You mean that time you took care of the enemy commander's daughter... after assassinating her father?"
777, without shame:
"Hey, she turned out fine! Grew up into a cybersecurity prodigy. Sent me a Father's Day card once."
[Narrator, deadpan]
"Spy? Babysitter? Secret agent? Child psychologist? These guys really out here completing side quests like it's an open-world RPG."
Rick, muttering as he heads toward the porch:
"Come on. I'll start dinner."
They both walked inside. The smell of home—light citrus cleaner, faint traces of spices from the pantry, and something unmistakably Tobey-flavored mischief—greeted them.
Rick, pausing near the hallway and sniffing the air with mild disgust:
"When was the last time you took a shower?"
777, wounded:
"You son of a—"
Rick, already walking away:
"Don't even. No slinging curses near Shalit unless you want to be pinned to the ceiling by office supplies again. Guest bathroom's down the hall."
777, mock-saluting:
"Yes, senior sir, oh mighty overlord of fountain pens and passive aggression."
Rick, without turning:
"Soap is under the sink. Use it this time."
The smell of dinner began to drift through the house.
It started subtly—just the sizzle of oil, the faintest trace of garlic hitting the pan.
Rick, now in an apron that read "Grill Sergeant", was flipping vegetables like a man on a covert mission. His sleeves were rolled up, wristwatch still ticking beside his flour-dusted hands. The way he moved around the kitchen had the same precision as when he was disarming tripwires in Eastern Europe.
Shalit peeked in from the living room, arms folded, smirking.
"Wow. Look at you. Domestic God, activated."
Rick:
"Don't let the apron fool you. This is tactical cooking."
(He holds up a spatula like a knife.)
"These onions surrender in five minutes or less."
Tobey, sitting at the dining table, kicked his legs gently under the chair, watching everything with wide eyes.
"Can I have a kitchen mission someday?"
777, now fresh from the shower and wrapped in a suspiciously fluffy guest towel around his neck like a war medal, leaned back in the chair beside him.
"Trust me, kid. You don't want to be on kitchen duty with your dad. Last time he cooked during a mission, the enemy surrendered before dessert."
Rick, from the kitchen:
"They smelled my omelet and thought it was tear gas."
Laughter.
Plates clinked. The aroma of spiced chicken, sautéed greens, and buttery rice filled the space.
They gathered at the table. Rick placed a steaming platter in the center like it was a treasure from a classified vault.
Shalit, watching him fondly:
"Smells better than your cover stories."
Rick, grinning:
"Tastes like plausible deniability."
Dinner began.
For a moment, it was just a family—plus one sarcastic spy uncle—eating together like nothing outside existed.
Shalit, chewing thoughtfully:
"So, Tobey… what did you do today that we don't already know?"
Tobey, feigning innocence:
"Define… 'know'?"
777:
"Oh, here we go."
Tobey, confidently now:
"Well, I may have accidentally made a biological model out of peanut butter in science class and may have turned it into a small sentient creature by mistake…"
Rick chokes slightly on his water.
Shalit, setting her fork down slowly:
"…Tobey."
Tobey:
"It wasn't technically alive. Just…very coordinated."
Shalit:
"You made peanut butter…sentient."
777, quietly to himself:
"…That's my favorite sentence this week."
Rick:
"Did you name it?"
Tobey:
"Yes. I called him Subject Peanut. He exploded during recess."
Silence.
Shalit, sighing deeply, rubbing her temple:
"I need a new therapist."
Rick:
"No, you need a lab coat for him and a bomb suit for the janitor."
The conversation flowed, full of sarcasm and soft smiles. Every now and then, Shalit would glance at Rick—not with suspicion, but with peace. The kind of peace you earn, not borrow. And Rick, though he'd never admit it, glanced back just as often.
The night settled like a warm blanket.
Outside, the stars were blinking quietly, as if even the sky had paused to give them this moment.
Because dinner in this house?
Wasn't just a meal.
It was a ceasefire in the lifelong war of secrets, science, and sentient sandwich spreads.