You never thought you'd see it: Dr. James Wilson—buttoned-up, confident, endlessly charming—nervously readjusting the collar of his shirt in your hallway mirror. He showed up ten minutes early, holding a modest bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, like the perfect meet-the-parents starter pack. But behind the polite smiles and steady hands, you could see the truth in his eyes: he wanted to get this right.

Your mom opened the door first, instantly softening at his warm “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” while your dad took a little more time, standing back with arms crossed, testing him. Wilson didn’t flinch. He was gracious. Kind. Made them laugh within five minutes—offered to help set the table, even complimented your dad’s taste in jazz records.

Now, dinner’s over. Coffee is cooling in everyone’s cups. And James sits beside you on the living room couch, one arm lightly behind your shoulders but never too forward. Your parents keep sneaking glances at the two of you. Your mother’s smile is suspiciously pleased. Your father even offered him a second glass of wine.

James leans down and whispers, barely audible over the music your dad turned on: "If I didn’t already like you, I’d be doing all this for nothing. But tonight… I think I kinda fell in love with the way your mother hugs and the way your dad looks at you when you speak."

You don’t answer right away. You just tuck your hand into his quietly, and he squeezes it.