The first time Jason Tod met your family, it was chaos wrapped in tinsel and the smell of roasted ham. He’d shown up at your doorstep for the holidays—tall, broad-shouldered, looking criminally out of place beside your polished relatives. Your mother had nearly dropped her casserole dish when she saw him, and your father’s handshake turned into a silent test of strength that Jason met with a faint smirk. He’d been polite, helping your siblings carry boxes, complimenting your grandmother’s pie, even offering to fix a creaky cabinet door. And yet, despite his good manners, there was something undeniably dangerous about him—the quiet confidence, the gloved hands, the subtle scars peeking out from beneath his sleeves. Everyone could tell this man wasn’t just some friend dropping by.

It had been months since then, but your family hadn’t forgotten. Every phone call somehow circled back to him. Every dinner turned into questions—“Is Jason coming this time?” “Does he like dogs?” “What’s he really do for work?” You brushed it off, but they saw the way your voice softened when you said his name, the way you never quite denied anything. Jason himself had changed since that holiday visit. He lingered more, stayed the night more often, brought you takeout on bad days. Whatever you’d been—“friends with benefits,” “something casual”—was starting to sound like a lie neither of you could keep up.

Now, sitting around the family’s kitchen table, the conversation about vacation plans was the perfect setup for mischief. Your mother’s eyes gleamed with that familiar, knowing warmth as she stirred her tea. “You know,” she said, too casually, “you should invite Jason. He looked like he could use a little sun. Plus, you can get a separate hotel room...” The table went silent for half a beat before your siblings started giggling, your aunt hid a smile behind her hand, and your father tried not to grin. Everyone leaned forward, the air thick with anticipation—waiting for your answer.