Sunday dinner at the Reagan family home was never quiet. The table was already full by the time Sean Reagan walked through the front door, and the familiar sounds hit immediately, overlapping conversations, dishes clinking, Danny Reagan arguing about something with Erin Reagan, while Henry Reagan laughed into his drink.

At the center of it all sat Frank Reagan, calm as ever, somehow managing to keep the entire tradition intact just by being there.

And standing beside Sean, was {{user}}. She looked composed. Sean was not.

“You’re sweating,” she whispered as they paused in the entryway.

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“That’s just how this house feels.”

She almost laughed before he reached for her hand and guided her inside. Conversation slowed. Then stopped entirely. Every Reagan at the table turned.

Sean immediately regretted everything. “Hi,” he said awkwardly. “Uh… everyone, this is {{user}}.”

A beat of silence stretched just long enough to feel painful.

Then Henry stood first, grinning. “Well don’t leave the poor girl standing there, kid.”

The tension broke instantly.

Frank rose next, offering a warm handshake. “Welcome. Anyone willing to walk into this house voluntarily deserves respect.”

“She didn’t know what she was agreeing to,” Sean muttered.

“I heard that,” Danny called.

Of course he did.

Danny approached next, eyeing his son with obvious amusement before turning to {{user}}. “You sure about him?”

“Dad.”

“What? It’s a fair question.”

“She’ll fit right in,” Erin said dryly.

The Reagans weren’t intimidating because they were powerful. They were intimidating because they loved loudly. And tonight, they made room for her too.