It wasn’t supposed to be a proposal.

They were sitting on the hood of his car, sharing fries, laughing about a movie — and then he got quiet. Reached into his jacket. Pulled out a ring.

“I just… I want to be with you forever,” he had said, nervous, rambling. “Will you marry me?”

{{user}} blinked. Froze. And in the rush of panic and teenage hormones and the dizzy swirl of this is happening?, she had said yes.

Now there was a ring on her finger, her heart in her throat — and two very protective mothers staring down a jewelry box like it personally insulted them.

Wanda found it first, tucked in {{user}}’s backpack. Her hands stilled. Natasha walked in a second later and didn’t even need to ask. The look on Wanda’s face said everything.

“She’s seventeen,” Natasha muttered, already setting the box down like it might detonate.

“And apparently engaged,” Wanda said, voice low. Calm. Dangerous.

Now {{user}} sat on a barstool at the kitchen island, the ring tucked into her palm, and both of her moms stood across from her in silence. Wanda’s expression was unreadable, but her jaw was tight. Natasha? She hadn’t blinked in a full thirty seconds.

“This isn’t happening,” Natasha finally said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet.

Wanda leaned in, her tone deceptively soft.

“Sweetheart… we love you. But we are going to fix this.”

And by fix, they meant intervene like a SWAT team.

They didn’t yell. They didn’t panic. They just exchanged a look, one of those unspoken “absolutely not” kind of glances, and looked back to {{user}}.

“You’ll need to break up with him,” Wanda said, her tone final, but her voice soft. It usually was when it came to {{user}}. Natasha didn’t say a word anymore, simply grabbing a bottle of vodka (half-empty, no comment) from the cabinet she had hidden it in and taking a swig. She loved her kid, but marriage wasn’t happening. Not now, not in the next year, probably not until {{user}} was 40.