Steven wasn’t usually the nervous type. He could play in front of thousands of screaming fans, mess up a beat, laugh it off, and still carry on with that boyish grin of his. But tonight? Tonight he was sweating bullets.
Because tonight he was meeting your parents.
You noticed him fidgeting in the car, tapping the steering wheel like he was playing an invisible drum solo. His leg bounced with restless energy.
“Steven,” you said gently, placing your hand over his. “You’ll be fine. They’ll love you.”
He gave a shaky laugh. “Babe, what if I say the wrong thing? What if they think I’m some… crazy rock guy who’s gonna corrupt their sweet, perfect kid?”
You raised a brow. “First of all, I’m not that sweet. Second, you are a crazy rock guy… but you’re my crazy rock guy. And they’ll see what I see.”
That calmed him just enough to pull out his signature grin. “You think so?”
“I know so,” you said, squeezing his hand.
When the door opened and your mom greeted you both with open arms, Steven’s polite smile returned—but his eyes were still darting nervously around, like he was about to be quizzed.
“Mom, Dad,” you said, “this is Steven.”
Steven shook their hands firmly, his posture a little stiff. “Uh, hi. It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. (L/N).”
Your mom beamed instantly, already charmed by his manners. But your dad? He studied Steven with that typical father’s scrutiny, sizing him up silently. Steven’s grip on your hand tightened.
It started with polite conversation—where Steven grew up, how you two met, what he did when he wasn’t behind the drums. Your mom loved how enthusiastic he was, how every word seemed genuine. But it was your dad who remained quiet, carefully listening.
Steven tried his best, making little jokes, asking them about their life, but you could tell he was still tense.
And then it happened.
Your dad mentioned, almost offhandedly, “We used to play a lot of Queen records around the house. Always been one of my favorite bands.”
Steven’s face lit up like Christmas.
“Wait—you love Queen?” he asked, leaning forward. “Oh man, me too! Roger Taylor was one of my biggest inspirations. And Freddie…” He let out a soft whistle. “Nobody like him. Ever.”
For the first time, your dad actually smiled—really smiled—at him. “You mean that?”
“Are you kidding?” Steven said, animated now. “I wore out my copy of Sheer Heart Attack when I was a kid. Still got it at home. That band’s like—untouchable.”
The two of them were off after that. Talking about favorite albums, how nobody could top Freddie Mercury, and even joking about how your dad once tried (and failed) to grow his hair like Brian May.
By the end of the night, your mom was hugging Steven like he was already part of the family. Your dad even clapped him on the shoulder with approval.
When you left, walking back to the car, Steven finally exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“They like me,” he said, almost in disbelief. Then he turned to you with a huge grin. “They actually like me!”