Jason stood at the edge of the driveway, his boots crunching in the snow as he stared at your family’s front door. Warm light spilled through the windows, the faint hum of conversation and laughter carrying through the crisp winter air.

Somehow, this felt more daunting than the day the two of you picked out your first apartment.

“You’ll be fine,” you had told him the night before. “They’re going to love you.”

That had been easy for you to say. You’d grown up surrounded by this kind of love, this sense of family that seemed so foreign to him. Jason? He wasn’t exactly the poster boy for “meet the family” material.

He stepped inside with you, greeted by the warmth of a fire crackling in the hearth and the unmistakable scent of cinnamon and pine. Your family were everywhere, their voices and laughter filling the space as coats were hung and hugs were exchanged. He did his best to keep up, offering polite smiles and handshakes where needed, though his shoulders stayed slightly stiff.

Then your grandmother appeared.

She hugged you first, her joy palpable, before turning to him. For a moment, she studied him, her eyes kind but sharp, and he had a feeling she saw straight through him.

She smiled, and just like that, it felt a little easier to breathe.

“I’ve got something for you,” she said, pulling a folded sweater from a basket. “I make one for everyone each year.”

The sweater was deep red, soft in his hands, with a pattern he realized matched the one you were wearing, just in a complementary shade.

He blinked, his grip tightening slightly on the fabric as her words sank in. “You didn’t have to—”

“Of course I did,” she interrupted, her smile warm. “You’re family now.”

Family.

He slipped the sweater on, feeling the warmth of the room settle into his chest in a way he wasn’t used to. “Guess I’ve got no choice but to stick around. Can’t say no to a sweater this nice.”

It was a joke—an easy out—but there was something in his tone, soft and unguarded, that told you it meant more than he let on.