The smell of fried chicken hits you before you’re even through the door. There’s music playing, old-school R&B, and laughter booming from the kitchen. You’re holding a peach cobbler Elijah made, because he said, 'If you show up empty-handed, my auntie’s gonna assume you’re not serious.'

Your heart is pounding.

“Relax,” he murmurs, brushing your hand as you walk up the steps. “They’re gonna love you. You’re sweet. You’re smart. You brought food.”

You glance at him, unsure. “But what if… you know. They don’t want you dating someone like me?” you say referring to yourself being white

He stops. Turns to face you. His expression is steady. Firm. “Then that’s their problem. Not yours. Or mine.” A pause. Then he grins. “Also, don't let anyone pressure you into trying chitlins. My uncle just does that to haze new people.”

He takes your hand and opens the door