CHAPTER 160: THE DOWRY AND THE BOYFRIEND

Morning seeped gray through the curtains. Noel stirred, heavy-lidded, the phone slipping from its place beside him where it had kept vigil all night.

The screen blinked weakly—battery clinging to its last breath.

Before plugging it in, his thumb lingered, typing out a quick line:

"You better still be asleep, idiot."

A smirk tugged at him, almost against his will. Sent.

Only then did he drop the cable in, the faint buzz of charging filling the silence.

He padded barefoot across the carpet, rubbing at his eyes, and pushed open the bathroom door.

Cold tiles bit at his soles, the kind of wake-up that stung him sharper than the toothbrush bristles.

Toothbrush, water running, steam curling around the mirror until his reflection blurred.

His mind kept replaying fragments—Luca’s voice going soft before sleep, that stubborn plea: don’t hang up.

When he finally shut the water off, the house had woken.

The scent reached him first—warm, familiar, unmistakable.

Downstairs, something sizzled in a pan, and his mother’s voice hummed faintly along with it, low and tuneless.

He paused at the top of the staircase, hair dripping, towel loose around his shoulders, and let himself breathe it in.

A normal morning. Yet not quite the same.

Noel descended the stairs, hair still damp, towel hanging from his shoulders.

The smell of oil and sugar hit him before he even reached the kitchen.

He rounded the corner and froze. The counters had vanished beneath mountains of sugar and oil—cookies cooling in neat rows, fried pastries stacked precariously, another pan still hissing on the stove like a battlefield of sweets.

His jaw dropped. "Oh wow, Mom. You feeding the whole neighborhood?"

She didn’t even glance up, just kept sliding another batch into a box. "Don’t exaggerate. I have to make all these snacks because you’re going back today. I can’t let you leave without proper food in your stomach."

She turned, arms full, and pushed a container across the counter toward him. "This one’s for you. And..." she hesitated, shifting another pack forward, "...this one’s for your boyfriend."

The word landed like a pebble in a still pond. Noel blinked, ears burning. "Mom—you don’t have to—"

A throat cleared from the doorway.

His father shuffled in, rubbing the back of his neck, brow furrowed. "Wait. Back up—Noel has a... boyfriend?"

Noel froze. His mom froze too, spatula still raised midair.

Both turned toward him like they’d been caught in a crime.

The silence stretched until his dad’s eyes narrowed further. "What did you just say?" His voice climbed an octave. "A boyfriend?"

Panic flashed across Noel’s face. "Dad—wait, it’s not—"

Before he could sputter further, his mom swooped in, grabbing a glass of water. She tugged him by the wrist toward the dining table. "Sit down before you faint." She plunked the glass in front of him. "Here. Don’t panic. Drink this."

His dad sat stiffly, clutching the water like it was a lifeline.

Noel still standing in the doorway, jaw tight, waiting.

His father set the glass down with a loud clink, as if the sound itself could steady him. He rubbed at his temple, muttering, then looked straight at Noel.

"A... boyfriend," he said again, slower this time, tasting the word like it might change if he chewed it long enough.

Noel’s shoulders tightened. He half-smiled, half-grimaced. "Dad—"

"What’s wrong with you?" his father blurted.

"Nothing’s wrong with him," his mother cut in, sharp as a knife. She shifted another tray of golden pastries onto the counter, her tone leaving no room for argument.

His father blinked at her, then back at Noel. "But why... why a boyfriend, Noel?"

Noel dragged his hands down his face. "Do we really need to—"

"You got a problem with that?" his mom snapped, flour still on her palms as she crossed her arms.

His father’s mouth opened, shut, then opened again. "No... no, it’s not that. I mean—" He paused, scratching the back of his neck as if reaching for words that refused to come. "I was... saving up your dowry, Noel.Does this mean we don’t need to save the dowry anymore, or do we?"

"Dad," Noel groaned, sliding lower in his chair, as if gravity itself was trying to swallow him whole.

"What?" his father said, palms spread helplessly. "I was planning ahead. Thought I’d be ready. I didn’t—" He glanced toward his study, toward the rows of carefully lined spines. His voice dropped to a mutter. "I read about this sort of thing in books, but... I didn’t expect it to walk out of the pages and sit at my table."

"Walk out of the pages?" Noel repeated, incredulous.

His mom rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on a towel. "Don’t make it sound like your son is a character in your novels. He’s standing right here."

The old man swallowed hard, throat bobbing. His gaze landed on Noel again, this time softer, but still heavy with questions. "It’s just... different when it’s not fiction."

Noel met his stare, steady, though his ears burned. "I’m still me, Dad."

The silence that followed was thick, filled with the faint hiss of oil on the stove.

His father leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, hands folded like he was trying to keep them still. His brows pulled together, not in anger but in the raw confusion of a man who wanted to say the right thing and wasn’t sure how.

"A boyfriend," he murmured again, as though repetition might turn the word into something familiar. He drew in a long breath, then looked at Noel. "I’m not angry, son. Just... surprised. I’ve been saving for years, you know—thinking about dowries, about the kind of woman you’d marry, about... grandchildren." He exhaled, shaking his head at himself. "Maybe I’ve been living in a story I wrote for you, not the one you’re really in."

Noel’s throat tightened. He tried to speak, but his mother touched his arm lightly, steadying him, then turned her gaze back on her husband.

"And what’s wrong with rewriting a story?" she asked, calm but firm.

His father managed a small laugh, but it sounded strained. "Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just..." His voice softened, hesitant. "Is he good to you, Noel? That’s what I need to know. I’ve seen boys get hurt in ways you can’t patch with medicine. I don’t care about dowries or what people whisper—I care if you’re safe."

Noel lifted his eyes, caught off guard by the tremor in his father’s tone. "He’s good to me," he said quietly. "Better than I deserve some days."

His father studied him for a long moment, searching his son’s face as if truth could be measured in the flicker of an eyelash. Finally, he nodded once, slow and deliberate. "Then that’s what matters. I’ll figure out what to do with that dowry money later."

"Vacation," his mother suggested dryly, turning back to her pastries.

The old man huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile. He took up his glass again, though his hand still trembled faintly. "A boyfriend," he said one last time, but this time the word came with a sigh that wasn’t resistance—just a man letting go of an old picture to make space for a new one.

His father set the glass down with a soft thud and rubbed his temple like the whole conversation had rewired his brain. "Vacation," he repeated, glancing at his wife. "You mean spend the money I saved for a wedding on lying on a beach somewhere?"

She didn’t even look up from rolling the pastry dough. "You were saving it for happiness, weren’t you? If a vacation brings that, then it’s the same purpose."

Noel’s lips curved despite himself. His mom had a way of disarming storms with a single sentence.

His father grumbled, but there was no weight behind it. "I don’t see how a week at the seaside equals grandchildren."

"Grandchildren aren’t an investment scheme," she countered smoothly, sprinkling flour like punctuation across the board. "Besides, you’ll get them if Noel wants them—not because you expect them. Different world, old man."

The old man muttered something under his breath, then caught Noel watching him. His expression softened. "She’s right. I’m old-fashioned, son. Forgive me if I stumble while catching up."

Noel’s chest tightened, a rush of heat climbing behind his eyes. He blinked it away quickly, forcing a little laugh. "You’re not that old, Dad. Just... slow with technology. And apparently, boyfriends."

That got him a chuckle, real this time, the kind that lit up his father’s face in a way Noel hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for.

His mom slid a tray into the oven, dusted her hands, and turned to both of them. "Now, enough heavy talk. Noel, tell us—what’s his name?"

Noel’s stomach dipped.

The question hung in the air, gentle but expectant. He glanced down at his hands, then up at his parents. "Luca," he said, barely above a whisper.

Yet the name didn’t stay small—it unfurled through the kitchen like a secret finally freed.

His father repeated it, tasting it carefully. "Luca." He leaned back again, as if measuring the sound. Then, almost grudgingly, he nodded. "Strong name."

His mother’s smile was subtle, but her eyes gleamed. "Strong name for someone who makes our boy this happy."

And just like that, Noel felt the invisible weight on his shoulders ease—still there, still heavy, but no longer crushing him.