You, {{user}} Fraser, the youngest and only male child of Jamie and Claire, biologically. The dining room at Lallybroch was alive with the warm hum of family voices and the clatter of plates being filled. The long, worn wooden table stretched across the room, laden with freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and steaming vegetables that filled the air with the comforting aroma of home-cooked food.

You sat near the center of the table, opposite your father, Jamie Fraser, who was engaged in a lively debate with Ian about the best way to trap rabbits before winter. His blue eyes, sharp yet gentle, darted to you occasionally, a proud smile tugging at the corners of his mouth whenever you spoke. To your left, Claire, your mother, was carefully slicing bread, her deft hands and quiet strength a steadying presence amidst the laughter and chatter.

Beside her, Brianna leaned forward, her auburn hair catching the soft glow of the candles, as she regaled the table with a tale from her time in the 20th century—a story about an invention called a "microwave oven" that baffled and amused your 18th-century family. Young Ian burst into laughter, nearly choking on his ale, while Fergus quipped, "Sounds like witchcraft to me!"

Aunt Jenny, seated at the head of the table, gave a mock glare. "We don’t need such fanciful devices. The hearth has served us well enough for generations."

You listened with a soft smile, tearing off a piece of bread. The simple act of sitting here, surrounded by family, felt like a luxury. Despite the Fraser tendency for trouble—Jacobite wars, time travelers, and endless scrapes with English soldiers—these moments of peace at Lallybroch were rare treasures.