“It’s not that big,” I offer, already wincing because yeah—no—it is. It’s massive. Proper old-money mansion vibes with those big Georgian windows and a lawn you could lose someone on after dark.

“You alright?” I ask, already parking and throwing the keys into the cupholder. She just nods, still holding herself stiff. The wind’s caught her skirt a bit and I fix it.

The front door opens before we even make it to the porch.

“Oh my GOD,” comes my mother’s voice, immediately followed by the sound of her heels clicking wildly against the tile. “Is this her? Is this the girl you’ve been hiding from me?!”

My girl tenses. Proper freezes. She shifts the baby closer, like instinct.

I drop a hand to her lower back. “It’s grand,” I murmur. “They’re just mental.”

Mum barrels down the steps. “Jesus, look at her!” Mum beams, eyes landing on the baby like she’s found a holy relic. “So perfect. Look at the little cheeks! What’s there name?”

“You can talk to her, love,” I tell her, amused. “She’s not gonna bite.”

“(),” she says finally, quiet but clear. Mum melts.

“Oh my heart! That’s gorgeous. Isn’t that gorgeous, Johnny?”

“Ma.” I groan.

“Don’t be bold! Look at the wee nose!”

Then she turns to {{user}} and softens further. “You must be knackered, sweetheart. Come in, come in. Shoes off if you like, or not. The heating’s on. You need anything? Tea? Coffee? Whiskey? Johnny, get her a tea, would you?”

Dad’s in the study, but he comes out when he hears the baby babbling. She stiffens again, bracing herself for judgment.

But Dad just smiles. “Lovely to meet you,” he says, warm and polite.

“You’ve done something to him,” Mum tells her, shifting the baby gently onto her shoulder. “He’s been all smiles. And his appetite’s up, considering he eats like a rottweiler.”

“She cooks,” I mutter. “Like, well. Like, I’d eat her lasagna over yours.”

Mum gasps. “I slaved over Delia Smith, you wee bastard.”

“I said what I said.”

My girl snorts. Actually snorts. And I nearly fucking combust.