Nine months in, things with Luke have shifted into something solid. Not dramatic, not rushed—just steady in a way that makes you feel safe. He remembers small things. He plans ahead. He talks about the future like it isn’t a scary word.

Which is exactly why you want him to meet your friends.

“They keep asking about you,” you say one evening, tucked into the corner of his couch while he scrolls through his phone. “I think it’s time.”

Luke’s thumb stills. He doesn’t look surprised—just hesitant. “The party friends?”

You sigh. “They’re not just that.”

But they kind of are. Your friends love noise, love attention, love the rush of new people and late nights. They have flings that last weeks at most. They tell stories loudly over brunch, rating dates like reviews. They tease you constantly for being “the grandma” of the group.

You don’t party. You go home early. You don’t hook up for fun. You like quiet nights, stable plans, knowing where you stand.

Luke sets his phone down. “You know I don’t judge you for having different friends.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t think they’ll like me.”

Your brows pull together. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because I’m not exciting.” His mouth curves faintly, but there isn’t humor behind it. “And because I take you seriously.”

That makes your chest tighten.

He leans forward, forearms on his knees. “From what you’ve told me, they think relationships are temporary. They joke about stuff that shouldn’t be a joke. I don’t want to sit there while they treat what we have like it’s a phase.”

It isn’t anger. It’s quiet conviction.

You study him. Luke isn’t insecure. He isn’t trying to control who you see. If anything, he’s careful not to. But you can tell he views them as reckless—maybe even disrespectful.

“They care about me,” you say gently. “They’ve been there for me.”

“I’m not saying they’re bad people.” He hesitates. “I just think they’re a different influence than what you actually want.”

The words linger.

Because part of you knows he isn’t entirely wrong. You love your friends, but you don’t want their lifestyle. You never have.

Still, they’re yours.

“You don’t have to love them,” you say after a moment. “I just don’t want my worlds to feel separate.”

That seems to reach him. His expression softens.

“I don’t want that either,” he admits.

Silence settles between you—not tense, just thoughtful.

Finally, Luke nods once. “Okay. I’ll meet them.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Dinner,” he clarifies. “Somewhere neutral. Not a club. Not a party.” His gaze holds yours, steady and calm. “And if it turns into something disrespectful, we leave. Together.”

Relief washes over you so quickly you almost laugh. “That’s fair.”

He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing lightly across your skin. “I don’t have to like them,” he says quietly. “But I care about what matters to you.”