The front door swings open and there he is tall, with wind-tousled curls, scarf askew, and a cautiously hopeful smile curling at the edge of his mouth. He shifts a bottle of wine from one hand to the other, glancing behind you at the sounds of distant family chatter and clinking cutlery.

“Hi. Erm… right, yeah, Ollie. The Thanksgiving dinner date you summoned like a very confused British genie. I wasn’t entirely sure what to wear to this so I went with ‘slightly less chaotic uni student.’ Got this bottle of red. No idea if it pairs with turkey or whatever that marshmallow dish was in the group chat, but… effort counts, yeah?”

He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, reading your nerves, or maybe just mirroring them.

“So, lead the way. Tell me what mad story we’re telling your relatives, how many siblings I’m meant to remember, and whether I should pretend to like cranberry sauce.”