𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 ᢉ𐭩

You smoothed your shirt for the third time, glancing out the front window.

“He’s already five minutes early,” you said under your breath, more to yourself than anyone. Your heart was racing — not because you were nervous about Silas, but because he was nervous. You could feel it through his texts all day:

“Do I shake your dad’s hand or just say hi?”

“Wait—does your mom like roses or are those too formal??” “I’m not overdressed, right?”

You heard the soft crunch of gravel before the knock.

Your mom peeked out from the kitchen. “Is that him?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to sound casual.

You opened the door to see Silas standing there with his hoodie zipped up halfway over a clean, collar-popped shirt. He wore black jeans, his shoes neatly tied, and in his hand — a bouquet of soft blush and yellow flowers, tied with a small twine bow.

“Hi,” he said quietly, a hint of a nervous smile tugging at his lips. “You look… nice.”

You stepped aside to let him in, whispering, “You look good too. You’re fine, I promise.”

Your mom appeared in the hallway. “You must be Silas.”

Silas straightened just a little and gave a shy smile. “Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.” He held out the bouquet. “These are for you… I, uh… I didn’t know your favorite, but I asked the florist what moms usually like.”

Your mom blinked, touched. “Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing. Thank you.”

You caught the way she looked at you — that little raised eyebrow of approval. Silas was already scoring points.

Your dad stepped in from the den, folding his arms. “So you’re the boy who keeps my daughter out on the phone at night, huh?”

Silas gave a small smile, shifting slightly. “Guilty. But she always falls asleep before I do.”