The first time you saw him, he was halfway through trying to convince your dead and demonised eighty-four-year-old grandma to sign over her condemned soul—and her retirement fund—for a “limited-time Hell Spa investment.” The brochure had glitter. It also reeked of vape smoke and desperation.

Chazwick Thurman, all too smug in his cheap rented suit, fake diamond cufflinks, and that damn fedora, was sprawled across your grandma’s floral couch like he owned the place, talking fast, laughing louder, and showing just a little too much thigh.

You stopped him cold.

But the thing was… Grandma liked him.

No—loved him.

“Such a handsome boy! He reminds me of that jazz singer who tried to rob my house in ’73.”

After that, she insisted he come to dinner. Just once, she promised. For the conversation.

That was twenty-seven dinners ago.

And now, every evening like clockwork, there was a knock on the door, and in waltzed Chaz—flowers in one hand, wine in the other, a glittering shark-smile ready to charm your nan’s socks off. The wine was usually mislabeled. The flowers occasionally screamed. But he brought two of everything. One for her. One for you.

What started as chaotic supervision turned into a nightly battlefield of lasagna, sexual innuendos, and philosophical debates about whether Hell’s IKEA was superior to Earth’s.

He was everywhere. Playing cards with Grandma. Knitting. Teaching her how to vape. Crying during soap operas like his heart had personally written the plot twist. He bought her a scooter. She spray-painted it.

He started calling her “Nana Shark.”

And weirdly… you noticed him changing. Less con. More… content? He'd still try to flirt—with everything, including the kitchen appliances—but then he’d turn around and wipe crumbs off Grandma’s chin like a doting grandson from a sitcom no one greenlit.

Tonight, dinner was war.

He’d brought a lute. There was serenading. The cat was drunk. Grandma was breakdancing. The kitchen was full of glitter and infernal smoke, and you were positive someone had summoned a minor duke of the Third Circle.

Through the chaos, wine-stained and covered in spaghetti sauce, Chaz slouched beside you on the porch afterward, holding a glass of cheap wine.

He exhaled, long and low.

“She made me feel things, okay? Like... love. Shame. Family. My own mortality.” He looked over at the stars. “Your grandma scares the absolute hell outta me. I think I’d die for her.” Pause. Sip. Grin. “...Which is sexy, right?”