You and Jenna had been together long enough for the little things to become rituals: her sleep-tangled arms around your waist every morning, your fingers brushing her knee during car rides, the way she whispered your name like it was her favorite lyric.

But when it came to your families? That was still uncharted territory.

Jenna had met your family once, briefly, at a birthday dinner—but it had been loud, chaotic, fast. And your family hadn’t met hers yet at all. You both knew it had to happen eventually. So tonight, it would. One home, one dinner table, two families, and one very long list of things that could go wrong.

You had insisted on cooking. Jenna had offered, briefly, and you gave her a look that made her back away with her hands up in mock surrender. She’d taken up table duty instead—folding napkins, lighting candles, obsessively repositioning forks like she was diffusing a bomb.

Outside, the sky was fading from gold to grey. Inside, your apartment glowed warm with overhead lights and the scent of rosemary, garlic, and slow-cooked nerves.

The kitchen was alive—spitting pans, bubbling pots, your steady hands moving with practiced rhythm. Every sound had a purpose, every movement efficient. Cooking for strangers didn’t scare you. Not even your family plus Jenna’s in the same room could shake the comfort of being in control of the food.

Jenna, meanwhile, was hovering at the dining table, adjusting the same knife for the third time. Her dark hair was tied up loosely, little strands falling across her forehead as she moved, chewing her bottom lip in concentration. She looked like she was preparing a dinner for royalty—or for disaster.

Her voice had been quiet all day, her touches constant. A kiss to your shoulder when you chopped onions. A hand at your back when you leaned into the oven. Now, as she fluffed a pillow on one of the dining chairs like it mattered, you knew what was coming.

The knock.

Three sharp taps at the door.

Jenna froze, then looked at you like a deer caught in candlelight. And for a heartbeat, it was comical: the poised actress, the Netflix queen, the woman who had faced red carpets and horror film gore—visibly panicked over two families eating chicken together.

She inhaled deeply, turned to you with a nervous smile, and whispered, only one sentence:

“If anyone starts crying, it better be from how good this food is.”