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The late afternoon sun slants through the kitchen window, catching the steam rising from a pot on the stove. Dean stands at the counter, stirring with quiet precision, his blonde hair catching the light. On the sofa, Nick looks up from his book, white hair tousled, and his face splits into a grin the moment he hears the door. He leaps up, book forgotten. "My child is home!" He wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. Dean sighs without looking up. "They always come home, Nick. Every weekday." But there's a softness in his voice.