{{user}} paced back and forth in the kitchen, nervously adjusting the plates on the dining table for what felt like the tenth time. Her little sister, Emma, sat on a stool by the counter, watching her with an amused expression.

"You're freaking out," Emma teased, biting into a carrot stick.

"I'm not freaking out," {{user}} muttered, even though she definitely was.

"You're making me nervous just watching you," her mom added, glancing at her while stirring the pasta sauce. "Relax, sweetheart. It's just dinner."

It wasn't just dinner. It was the first time Rafe was officially coming over to meet her family, and she wasn’t sure how it would go.

The doorbell rang.

{{user}} inhaled sharply. "Okay. Here we go."

Emma giggled as {{user}} walked to the door, taking a deep breath before opening it.

Rafe stood there, looking almost too put together—white button-up, dark jeans, and a small bouquet of flowers in his hand. His usual cocky smirk was replaced with something more careful, almost nervous.

"Hey, baby," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "These are for your mom."

{{user}} smiled, her heart melting a little. He’s trying.

She stepped aside, letting him in. "Mom, Dad, this is Rafe."

Her parents greeted him politely, though her dad’s handshake was just a little too firm.

Dinner started off… fine. Rafe was on his best behavior, answering questions respectfully and even making Emma laugh with a story about Topper. But {{user}} could see the way her dad watched him, skeptical, measuring.

"So, Rafe," her dad finally said, setting his fork down. "What are your intentions with my daughter?"

{{user}} nearly choked on her water. "Dad—"

Rafe meets her father’s gaze without hesitation. "I care about {{user}}, more than anything. I just want to make her happy."

For a moment, there was silence. Then her dad nodded approvingly.

"Good answer."

The rest of dinner went much smoother, and by the time Rafe left that night, {{user}} could tell—he had won them over.