**Six Months Later**
The kitchen was loud again—just like old times.
Pots clanged, rice steamed on the stove, laughter burst from the living room as Riz's cousins tried to beat Cleo's youngest sibling at a card game. It was Sunday, which meant family lunch. Except now, "family" had blurred in the best way.
Their mothers stood side by side at the counter, plating grilled chicken and pancit, arguing over who over-seasoned the adobo.
And in the corner of the dining room, Riz and Cleo sat together, knees brushing under the table, completely at ease.
It hadn't always been like this.
The early weeks had been filled with awkward pauses and too-careful questions. Riz's dad had taken a few conversations to warm up—more quiet than disapproving, trying to understand something he hadn't been taught to name. Cleo's uncle had cracked a tone-deaf joke at a birthday party, and Riz had spent the whole drive home stewing over it.
But what followed surprised them.
Apologies. Conversations. Growth.
Riz's mom started asking them questions—not just about *how* they were, but *who* they were to each other. Cleo's dad stopped calling Riz "Cleo's best friend" and started calling him "my other son." Slowly, the awkwardness turned into something easy. Natural.
Now, it was tradition for Riz and Cleo to cook one dish together every Sunday.
That afternoon, they had brought spring rolls—and Cleo had accidentally burned the first batch. Riz teased him for an hour straight, their moms only stepping in when Cleo threatened to use the rice cooker as a weapon.
After lunch, Riz was washing dishes when his youngest cousin asked, not shy at all:
"Are you and Kuya Cleo getting married?"
Riz choked on the sponge water. "What? No—well—not yet—"
Cleo popped his head in from the living room, towel slung over his shoulder. "Give us time. He hasn't even proposed."
Riz turned red. His mom, drying plates beside him, laughed gently and said, "Well, we'll be ready when you are."
There was no pressure in her voice. Just joy. Patience. Acceptance.
That night, back at Cleo's apartment—the one they'd slowly turned into *their* apartment—Riz curled up against him on the couch, a blanket over both their legs, their laptops open but forgotten.
"They love us," Riz said softly, like he still couldn't believe it.
Cleo kissed his temple. "Of course they do. We're adorable."
Riz snorted. "Seriously. You ever think about how lucky we are?"
Cleo paused. "All the time."
"Like... it could've gone so differently."
"But it didn't," Cleo said. "They chose to love us through it."
Riz nodded. "And now they won't shut up about our future wedding."
"We're not even engaged yet!"
Riz smiled, tracing slow circles on Cleo's arm. "Maybe we should start thinking about it."
Cleo leaned in, nuzzled into his neck. "Maybe we already are."
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End of Chapter Twenty