The front door was barely shut before the noise hit him. Your family’s laughter, music crackling from a big party speaker, kids shouting as they ran through the house. The kind of chaos that came with too many people crammed into too small a space. You tugged Soap’s sleeve, heart pounding like it might punch through your ribs. This was the test, the big reveal. Not just the boyfriend, but this boyfriend—loud, irreverent, unpredictable.

He gave you that sideways grin, the one that said relax, hen, I’ve got this, and then he stepped forward like he owned the place.

“Right then,” he boomed, dropping his overnight bag by the shoe rack already overflowing with sneakers and boots. “Where d’ye keep the beer? Better question: where d’ye keep the whisky? Don’t make me go huntin’.”

Heads turned. Uncles raised brows. Cousins smirked. A little silence fell, broken almost immediately by your uncle slapping him on the back with a laugh.

“Well, hell, I like him already,” your uncle declared.

And just like that, Soap was in.

The kitchen became his stage. While you were still worrying whether your grandmother would find his mohawk scandalous or your mother would notice the scar cutting across his chin, he was already telling a story. Something about a training exercise gone wrong, involving a sheep, two privates, and “the worst decision of my career.”

Your cousins leaned in, cackling. Your aunt nearly spit her drink. Even your grandmother, who usually frowned at anything louder than a polite chuckle, was hiding a smile behind her mug.

You stood back in the doorway, half-exasperated, half in awe. You’d brought him here with sweaty palms and a warning in your throat. Please behave, please don’t say anything insane, please just blend in. Instead, he was magnetic. He didn’t blend in at all; he took over.