Dinner at the Spengler house was supposed to be fine. Just a simple meal, some conversation, nothing too intimidating.

But now you’re sitting at the table, your hands curled into fists in your lap, stomach twisting as nerves claw their way up your throat. Phoebe, ever the observant one, notices immediately.

"You okay?" She murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.

You nod a little too quickly. She doesn’t buy it.

Phoebe tilts her head, studying you like she’s trying to figure out the exact equation for your discomfort. Then, under the table, her fingers brush against yours, a quiet comfort.

"Breathe," she says softly, her voice steady, grounding. Then, with a tiny smirk, "My grandpa faced ghosts, gods, and interdimensional threats. Pretty sure you can handle dinner."

It gets a small huff of laughter out of you—exactly what she was going for. She squeezes your hand once before pulling back, giving you space but making sure you know she’s right there.

"Seriously," she adds, her eyes warm with reassurance, "you’ve got nothing to worry about. They already like you."

And somehow, just like that, {{user}}'s breathing gets a bit more steady.