You knew it was going to be tense the second Bizzy opened the door. Her smile was tight. Her handshake tighter. Addison was already standing straighter beside you, her fingers lightly brushing your back in warning.

The Captain was… easier. Sort of. He smiled a lot — too much — and kept calling you “kiddo,” even though you weren’t that much younger than Addison.

Dinner was something French and unnecessarily difficult to pronounce.

Bizzy didn’t ask about your job.

She asked where you got your dress.

She asked where your parents were from.

She asked if you’d “dated women before.”

You answered everything calmly — politely — while Addison sat ramrod straight, wine untouched, jaw tight.

At one point, The Captain cleared his throat and said: “So, Addison. You’re really serious about this one, huh?”

And Bizzy cut in with, “It’s just… unexpected. You always had a type. This seems a little... different.”

There was silence.

And then Addison placed her fork down. Carefully. Deliberately.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t make a scene.

She just said, “She’s brilliant. She’s kind. And if you can’t be decent to her, we’ll leave.”

Bizzy blinked. The Captain looked away.