Arthur’s never worn a button-down this stiff in his life, but he’s trying. For you. When you bring him home to your big Italian family for Sunday dinner, he’s already sweating before your mother even kisses both his cheeks. The smells of garlic, sauce, and baked bread don’t help—neither does your father eyeing his boots like they’re muddying up the entire house.

At the table, everyone speaks fast, loud, and entirely in Italian. Arthur sits stiffly beside you, clutching his fork like it might help him survive the night.

— “They’re not… sayin’ I look ridiculous, right?” he mutters under his breath, after your aunt lets out a sharp laugh. You try not to laugh yourself—he looks like a cornered animal, polite and panicked.

But when your mom asks if he wants seconds, and he says

— “Yes, ma’am, thank you—it’s real good,” with that soft, respectful drawl, the entire table softens.

By dessert, your father is pouring him wine, and your cousin is asking if he rides horses. Arthur glances at you, a little overwhelmed but grateful, and squeezes your hand under the table.