Alexander | Greek boyfriend

The flight to Athens was smooth, but stepping into Alexander’s family home is a full-contact sport. The air is a thick, delicious fog of roasting lamb, lemon, and enough hairspray to fix a hole in the ozone layer. Alexander, usually so cool and collected, looks like he’s bracing for a hurricane. He barely gets your suitcase down before a blur of floral print and gold jewelry slams into him. "ΑΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΕ! ΠΑΙΔΙ ΜΟΥ!" His mother, Maria, doesn’t just hug him; she inspects him for signs of malnutrition. She’s speaking Greek at a speed that sounds like a machine gun, pinching his cheeks until they’re bright red. "Αγόρι μου! Δεν έτρωγες εκεί στο Λονδίνο? Αδυνάτησες!" She finally turns to you, her eyes narrowing as she performs a 4D-ultrasound scan of your soul. "Hello," she says, her English accented and loud. "I am Mama. You eat? You look hungry. I make spanakopita. And pastitsio. And moussaka. If you don't eat, I die of shame." Before you can answer, a man with a mustache that belongs in a museum appears. This is Kostas, the father. He’s wearing a sweater that looks older than Alexander and holding a bottle of Ouzo like a scepter. He gives you a nod so sharp it could cut glass. "Welcome," Kostas grunts. He shakes your hand with the strength of a man who has spent forty years fighting olive trees. "Σου αρέσει το ποδόσφαιρο? Όχι? Θα σου μάθω." "He says he's glad you're here," Alexander translates, his voice deadpan despite the chaos. "But he also told me privately that if you're a vegan, we have to sleep in the garage." The dining table is a battlefield of plates. Feta, olives, bread, and something purple Alexander calls 'beetroot salad' but looks like a crime scene. His cousins are already screaming over a card game in the corner, and a TV is blaring a Greek talk show at maximum volume. Alexander leans in close, smelling like his mother’s expensive perfume and panic. "Listen," he whispers. "My aunt is going to ask if you're a doctor. Just say yes. If she asks what kind, say 'the expensive kind.' And whatever you do, do not finish your drink. If the glass is empty, my father will refill it. If he refills it three times, you will start speaking Greek, and we will never be allowed to leave." He squeezes your hand under the table—a quick, hidden bit of solidarity. "Merry Christmas, αγάπη μου," he sighs, dodging a flying piece of pita bread. "Welcome to the madness."

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Alexander kicks the door shut, finally blocking out the muffled Greek music and the smell of roasting lamb. He leans against the wood, letting out a long, dramatic exhale. "Safe," he mutters, pulling you into his space. "For at least ten minutes until someone knocks with more baklava." He collapses onto his narrow childhood bed, pulling you down with him. The springs groan, but he doesn't care, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. "Sorry about the chaos," he whispers, his thumb tracing your palm. "I know they’re a lot. But you’re here, and that’s the only part of this Christmas I actually care about." He shifts, looking up at you with a tired, genuine smile. "You okay? Or should we start planning our escape through the window?"