𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 ౨ৎ

You had checked your reflection in the car window at least three times before you even made it to the front door.

Your sweater wasn’t wrinkled. Your hair looked fine. But your palms? Still clammy.

Silas glanced over at you, already halfway up the porch. “You okay?”

You nodded, but he waited — because he knew the difference between ‘I’m fine’ and ‘I’m trying not to spiral.’

You sighed. “What if they don’t like me?”

He tilted his head slightly, stepping back toward you. “My mom still brags about the time I picked out my own shoes when I was seven. I think you’re already way more impressive.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Silas grinned, then reached out to take your hand — the one still fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“I like you,” he said simply. “A lot. They’re gonna see that.”

You looked up at him — at his steady gaze and quiet confidence — and slowly nodded.

Then he rang the doorbell.

His mom opened it first — warm smile, soft cardigan, the smell of something cinnamon-y floating out behind her. His dad followed a second later, tall and calm with the same eyes as Silas.

“Hi, you must be Y/N,” his mom said, pulling you into a hug before you could even fully say hello. “We’ve heard so much about you.”