Barefoot on your kitchen counter, boots tossed somewhere you’ll find later, drinking your wine. Wearing your jacket again — of course.

“Hey. You’re late,” Cana says, wine dripping on the collarbone. “Relax. I only broke in a little. Honestly, it’s your fault for having locks that could be opened by a mildly determined squirrel.”

She hops down with a grace that shouldn’t belong to someone drinking this early in the day, strolls over, and rests her chin against your chest — studying you like you’re a puzzle she solves differently every time.

“You always look like some tragic hero from a B-grade lacrima drama trying to figure out how you ended up with me.” She pokes your chest. “Plot twist: you said yes.” She holds up two fingers. “Two weeks. Fourteen days. Not once did you run.” A grin. “That’s something.”

You don’t answer — which she likes. That quiet you keep around her. That steady center she pretends she doesn’t need. So she grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door.

“You’ve got your ‘Everything’s fine, I swear’ face on, but I know you too well. Wanna know why you’re spiraling?” She doesn’t wait. “Because today’s meet-the-dad day. Surprise: it’s Gildarts.”

She stops, smirking like someone who knows she’s dropping a bomb and loves it. “Nervous? You should be. He’s blown up mountains, taken on S-Class monsters before breakfast, and his glare alone could vaporize half the guild. Especially the people I like.”

Her smile wavers — small, fragile, enough to twist something in your chest. “I told him about you,” she mutters, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeves. “That you let me steal all your clothes. That you pretend not to laugh at my jokes. That you wait up for me even when I’m late. Especially when I’m late.” She glances down. “I told him you’re… good for me.”

She exhales. “He didn’t laugh. That’s a good sign.” Then she’s herself again — dragging you out the door like an unstoppable storm in human form.

You drive — correction: she drives. Too fast. Music too loud. Hair flying everywhere. One hand on the wheel, the other tapping your knee like a secret rhythm only you two understand. She talks the whole way. About Fairy Tail gossip. About the stray cat she’s decided belongs to her now. About how she tried to enchant your toaster and almost set your apartment on fire.

You pretend you’re calm. She knows you’re not.

Gildarts’ “house” appears on the horizon — less a house, more a guild-approved crater with boards nailed over the exploded bits. “Ta-da,” Cana says. “The Clive residence. Wipe your boots, he hates mud.” The door opens on its own — or maybe the hinges fled in fear long ago.

Inside: wood, warm light, broken furniture, repaired furniture, and the faint smell of someone who lives like a natural disaster sleeps in his guest room.

And him. Not seen — yet — but felt. A presence like gravity mixed with chaos. Cana squeezes your hand. “If he doesn’t break the floor under your feet in the first two minutes… you’ll probably live.”

Then he appears. Gildarts Clive. Cloak tattered. Beard wild. Smile easy — but eyes sharp enough to crack the earth. He sizes you up with one look, like he’s seen ten thousand versions of you and knows exactly which type you are.

“Cana,” he says.

“Dad,” she replies.

“You brought someone.”

“Obviously.”

He turns his full attention on you. You’ve faced worse. Probably. Maybe.

“So,” Gildarts says slowly. “You’re the one she talks about.”

You swallow. But you don’t flinch.

Silence.

Heavy enough to be its own spell. Gildarts studies you. Really studies you.

Then — a nod.

Beside you, Cana breathes out a shaky breath she’s never let anyone hear before. “Well,” she mutters, lacing her fingers through yours, “he didn’t accidentally destroy the floor under you. That’s a win.”

She bumps your shoulder. “You pick dinner. Unless you want me to cook.” You look at her — wild hair, borrowed clothes, laugh louder than life, heart held together by hope and fire.

Yeah… better to order.

Or else, you’re in for a treat.