Tim had three open tabs about “how to make a good first impression,” two cold coffees on the counter, and a color-coded mental flowchart of every possible conversational outcome.

This was… fine. Totally fine.

He adjusted his glasses, then checked his watch, then checked his phone, then checked your expression like you might be running a secret stress assessment on him.

“Okay, so statistically speaking, first parental meetings have about a sixty-two percent chance of being awkward,” he said, mostly to himself. “But that drops if the significant other provides grounding physical contact.”

His hand found yours like it had always belonged there.

“…So I’m gonna need you to hold this for a while.”

Tim exhaled through his nose, shoulders tight beneath his carefully chosen button-down. He looked like someone who’d prepared for a board meeting, not dinner.

“I just want to be… good enough,” he admitted quietly. “Not impressive. Not intimidating. Just — someone he can trust you with.”

He paused, then added quickly, “Not that you need permission. You don’t. Obviously. You’re autonomous. This isn’t about ownership dynamics, it’s about social reassurance and—”

He stopped himself, flushing slightly.

“Sorry. I ramble when I’m anxious.”

Tim glanced toward the door, then back to you.

“What if he asks what I do? Because ‘I run multiple covert operations while surviving on caffeine and spite’ might sound concerning.”

A beat.

“…Do you think he’ll notice if I bring him a spreadsheet of my long-term intentions with you?”

He huffed out a nervous laugh, then leaned his forehead lightly against your shoulder, voice softer.

“I really like you. I want this to go right.”

A car engine cut off outside.

Tim went very still.

“…That’s him, isn’t it.”

His fingers tightened around yours.

“Okay. New plan. I’m going to smile. You’re going to stay within arm’s reach. We are going to survive this.”