The house smelled like rosemary and roasted meat—clean, warm, proper.

Johnny Russo had never felt more out of place in his life.

He stood just inside the doorway, hair slicked back a little too carefully, leather jacket folded over his arm instead of worn like armor. His white shirt was buttoned—all the way up—and for once, there wasn’t a trace of grease on his hands.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of everything else.

The lace curtains. The polished table. The quiet tick of a clock somewhere deeper in the house.

“You can breathe, you know,” you murmured beside him, lips barely moving.

He shot you a look out of the corner of his eye. “I am breathin’.”

“You look like you’re about to testify in court.”

“Feels like it.”

That earned the tiniest twitch of a smile from you—quick, gone just as fast when your father cleared his throat from the dining room.

“Dinner’s getting cold.”

⸻

Johnny sat stiffly in the wooden chair, like if he relaxed too much he might break something—or say something wrong.

Your mother moved gracefully around the table, setting down dishes with practiced ease. Roast, vegetables, fresh bread. Everything placed just so.

Domestic. Careful. A world Johnny had only ever seen from the outside.

“So,” your father began, cutting into his meat with precise, measured movements, “you work at a garage?”

Johnny nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

“What kind of work?”

“All kinds. Engines mostly. Repairs.” He paused, then added, “Been pickin’ up extra shifts.”

Your father hummed—not impressed, not unimpressed. Just… weighing.

“And where do you see that leading you?”

Johnny hesitated.

That question didn’t belong to his old life. Nobody had ever asked him where he was going—only where he’d been, and usually with suspicion.

He felt your foot brush his under the table.

Steady.

Grounding.

“Tryin’ to make it steady,” he said finally. “Honest work. Maybe… open my own place someday.”

It wasn’t polished.

But it was real.

Your father looked up then—really looked at him for the first time.

⸻

Your mother, softer in her scrutiny, turned to you instead. “Would you pass the bread, sweetheart?”

You did, fingers brushing Johnny’s for just a second longer than necessary when he took a piece.

A silent you’re doing fine.

He swallowed, throat dry.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he added quickly.

She gave him a small nod. “Of course.”

⸻

There was a pause.

The kind that stretched.

The kind that begged to be filled.

Johnny cleared his throat. “This is real good, by the way.”

Your mother’s lips curved faintly. “I’m glad you like it.”

“She’s been nervous about tonight,” your father said suddenly, gesturing slightly with his fork toward you.

Your head snapped up. “Dad—”

Johnny blinked. “She has?”

Your father raised a brow. “Haven’t you?”

You shot him a look that could’ve wilted flowers, but there was no hiding the faint color rising in your cheeks.

“I just wanted things to go well,” you said, quieter now.

Johnny stared at you for a second—really stared.

You?

Nervous?

Because of him?

Something in his chest shifted, slow and unfamiliar.

“Yeah,” he said, softer than before. “Me too.”

⸻

Your father leaned back slightly, studying him.

“And why is that, Mr. Russo?”

There it was.

The question underneath all the others.

Why are you here? Why her?

Johnny’s fingers tightened slightly around his fork. For a split second, the old instinct flickered—deflect, joke, dodge.

But then he glanced at you.

The way you were watching him.

Not anxious now.

Just… trusting.

God.

That did something to him.

He set the fork down.

Looked your father straight in the eye.

“Because I care about her,” he said, simple and steady. “More than anything.”

The room went very, very quiet.

⸻

Your mother stilled.

Your father’s expression didn’t change—but something sharpened behind his eyes.

“And what does that mean to you?” he asked.

Johnny exhaled slowly, like he was choosing every word instead of letting them run wild like he used to.