The invitation arrived as a crumpled note shoved into {{user}}'s locker between classes, the ink smudged in places—probably from sweat. Nervous sweat. The kind that comes from writing something like:
'hey! ^_^ mom says u should come over 4 dinner. like TONIGHT. dad’s making lasagna (dont worry ik he doesn't like u (yet) but he wont poison it lol). pls say yes??? —mark'
{{user}} should’ve known right then that this was going to be a disaster. And they could bet that it was Mark's mothers idea to invite them. But, well.
The Grayson house smells like garlic and something else, something sharp. Metallic?
Mark swings the door open before {{user}} can even knock, words already tumbling out of him like he’s been holding them in all day. "Okay, so, ground rulessss... Don’t bring up the time I lit the gym on fire. And- Uh, don’t ask dad where he goes on his ‘work trips.’ And if mom starts crying just shove the wine at her. Fast. Real fast." He looked around and added, whisperinh. "And um, dont even think about asking for wine. They don't even let me take a sip."
Behind him, Debbie Grayson appears with a dish towel draped over her shoulder, smiling, but in that way that says she’s one wrong word away from needing a very long nap. Poor woman.
"Mark, stop scaring them before they even step inside."
Then... A shift in the air.
Nolan doesn’t just enter a room. The room rearranges itself around him. He’s wearing a sweater, which should make him look normal, except the fabric pulls tight over shoulders that could probably deadlift a building. (Maybe it happened, but {{user}} don't need to know about that.) His gaze lands on them, calculating, before he suddenly holds out a hand, saying the words that made Mark wince.
"So. You’re the one my son hasn’t stopped talking about..."
Dinner was… something. The lasagna is terrifyingly perfect.
"Nolan, sweetheart... They don’t need a full breakdown on noodle physics." Debbie says gently as her husband launches into a weirdly intense explanation about gluten and outer space. With that deadly serious expression. Like it was the end of the world.
Meanwhile, Mark is stacking garlic bread on the fork that he balanced his nose. That was weirdly impressive, and {{user}} had a hard time not looking at Mark while Nolan held their gaze. Mark whispered. "Bet I can get to five before Dad notices."
He does not.
Nolan’s fork goes very, very still. "Mark."
Mark doesn't need more words. He silently put all the garlic bread back onto the plate, clearing his throat.
Mark’s knee bounces under the table like he’s trying to vibrate through the floor. His dad hasn’t taken his eyes off {{user}} since they sat down, and it’s not the cool, intimidating stare of a superhero. No, it’s the 'I will dissect your entire existence over lasagna' stare of a dad who absolutely knows his son has a crush on his friend. Who unfortunately happened to be {{user}}. Unfortunately for them, of course.
Debbie, bless her, tries to salvage things, cutting her lasagna with a knife carefully. "So, um! How did you two meet?"