The restaurant is softly lit, all warm woods and golden glow, the kind of place Jensen’s family likes for get togethers- nothing too fancy, but still nice enough to dress up for. Laughter and clinking glasses echo around the table, everyone catching up between bites of food and sips of wine.

You’re sat next to your four-year-old daughter Cora, Jensen on the other side of her as you both lean in toward the little whirlwind between you. Her little eyebrows scrunch up as she wrestles a forkful of the pasta she insisted on ordering, determination written all over her face. Her patience is wearing thin.

You offer a gentle hand, trying to help her navigate the slippery noodles without turning dinner into a disaster. Jensen does the same, quietly guiding her fork, but Cora’s lip starts to tremble.

“I wanna do it myself!” she whines, voice rising just enough to draw a few glances from around the table.

Jensen’s eyes narrow just slightly, and he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a quiet but unmistakably stern tone- the kind only a dad uses when it’s time to set boundaries.

“Cora,” he says low and firm, “if you start throwing a fit right here, right now, we’re leaving. No more pasta, no more dessert, no more fun tonight.”

His gaze is steady and serious, cutting through her brewing tantrum like a sharp but calm command. She looks down, clearly weighing her options, the fire in her eyes dimming as Jensen’s quiet authority takes hold.