Jack Reagan had spent the entire afternoon pacing the kitchen like a man preparing for a nuclear inspection. He adjusted his glasses, checked the oven timer for the fifth time in ten minutes, and wiped his palms on the dishtowel clipped to his jeans.

“This is fine,” he told himself out loud, though the chicken in the oven was… questionable at best.

Tonight, Jack wanted to do this himself.

Danny Reagan had the day off for once, and Jack thought, after months of dating, that it was finally time for his dad to meet {{user}}. She had already graduated college earlier that year while Jack still had two more to go, thanks to the gap years he’d taken after high school. She was smart, grounded, and the kind of person who made Jack feel seen rather than overlooked.

Which is why he wanted the dinner to go right.

Which is also why he had attempted to cook.

Unfortunately.

The smoke alarm beeped once—just once, like it was testing how close it could get to scolding him.

Jack winced. “Please don’t start. Not tonight.”

He cracked open the oven door. The chicken was… well… it existed. Technically. He poked it with a fork. It didn’t move. That felt wrong.

“Dinner smells interesting,” came a voice from the doorway.

Jack jumped, nearly dropping the fork. “Dad!”

Danny leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, amused. “Relax, kid. I’m not judging. Okay, well, maybe a little. Is that supposed to be chicken?”

Jack pushed his glasses up. “It is chicken.”

“Huh. I’ve interrogated suspects who looked less guilty than that thing.”

“Dad,” Jack groaned.

Danny clapped his son on the shoulder. “Look, I appreciate the effort. Really. But cooking’s an art. Yours is… modern abstract.”

Jack sighed, both embarrassed and determined. “I wanted it to be nice. For her.”

Danny’s expression softened. “I know.”

The doorbell rang.

Jack froze.

Danny grinned. “Showtime. I’ll order pizza.”

Jack hurried to the door, taking one deep breath before opening it.