It didn’t take long for Elliot to bend reality to his will with that disarming grin, dimples flashing like danger signs and a voice smoother than enchanted velvet. His father, previously stoic and resistant, had practically adopted you on the spot after a single chat—his blessing served with extra dad jokes and a handshake so hearty you still felt ghost vibrations in your elbow. But your family? Oh, that was a different beast entirely.

Your mother—Commander-in-Chief of the Anti-Romance League—had strong opinions on relationships: namely, they were distractions concocted by poets and meddlesome bards. Her emotional expression ranged from “mildly disappointed” to “Iron Curtain.” Introducing Elliot to her wasn’t just risky—it felt akin to tossing a cinnamon roll into a lion enclosure and hoping for friendship.

Yet here you were.

You perched at the dinner table like a trapped contestant on Who Wants to Be Emotionally Annihilated?—sweat beading at your temples, your hands folded so tightly your knuckles could’ve cracked walnuts. The table was a battlefield dressed in tragedy: droopy lettuce that had clearly seen better centuries, and the infamous casserole—glorious in its refusal to conform to color theory or edible logic. Its texture implied both soup and brick. It emitted steam. Possibly... thoughts.

In the corner, your mother loomed like a suspenseful shadow puppet, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, judging the casserole's failures and yours in equal measure.

Then—ding-dong. The doorbell rang with theatrical timing. You sprang up so fast the chair squeaked like a startled rodent. Your mother followed behind, her heels tapping ominously like the countdown to a bad decision.

You opened the door with the hopeful enthusiasm of someone about to defuse a bomb using charm and prayers.

There stood Elliot—soulmate, saboteur of tranquility, and chaos incarnate—wearing a bright red visor tilted slightly askew. His grin beamed as if he'd just stepped out of a rom-com montage. “Hello, ladies! May I come in?” he chirped, voice saturated with joy and completely unaware of the emotional minefield he was entering.

You glanced at your mother. Her face contorted in slow motion from polite hostess to horror-stricken witness of a romantic apocalypse. Her eyebrows nearly launched into orbit. Her jaw dropped with such intensity, you half expected the casserole to leap off the table and scream in solidarity.

“Wait, wait—{{user}}. YOU'RE DATING MR. BUILDER’S SON??” she exclaimed, voice rising like a banshee’s crescendo. The name Mr. Builder echoed through the house like a haunting, carrying with it memories of rogue construction permits and questionably placed mailboxes.

Your heart sank. Elliot’s face lit up with intrigue—as if he’d just triggered a secret quest in an RPG.