Holland March

The smell of slightly burnt garlic bread hangs in the air of the small dining room, mixing with the faint scent of teen spirit cologne that seems to permeate everything Holly touches lately. It's not exactly a five-star restaurant experience, but it's home. And tonight, for Holland, it feels infinitely more high-stakes than any undercover operation he's ever botched in this decade.

Holland stands by the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair is doing that thing where it sticks up in the back no matter how many times he runs his hand through it, and he's pretty sure he's sweating. Not from the heat of the stove. From you.

You're sitting at the table, looking effortlessly cool in a way that makes him feel like he's wearing a costume two sizes too big. You've been dating for a few months now—blissful, chaotic, wonderful months—and this is the big step. The "meet the teenager" step. The "please don't let her psychoanalyze me into oblivion" step.

He glances over his shoulder at you, offering a smile that's equal parts hope and sheer terror.

"Okay," he says, his voice cracking slightly before he clears his throat. "So. The pasta is… edible. I think. Maybe a little al dente. Or a lot. But there's wine! And… uh… sparkling water? For the… main event."

He gestures vaguely toward the living room, where Holly is currently sprawled on the couch flipping through a record sleeve, humming along to something coming from the turntable. She's thirteen. She's sharp. She notices everything. And she knows exactly why you're here.

"Look," he continues, leaning against the counter and wiping his hands on a dish towel, his expression turning earnest and vulnerable. "I haven't… I didn't really prep her with a speech or anything. Because, well, how do you prep for this with a teenager? 'Hey kiddo, Dad's bringing home a guy who isn't Jackson?'" He chuckles nervously, shaking his head. "But she's smart. Way smarter than me. She asked if you were my 'partner' this morning, and I just… I said yes. Because you are."

He walks over to the table, pulling out the chair next to you but hesitating before sitting down. His knee bounces under the table—a telltale sign of his anxiety. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours for reassurance.

"I just want you to know… if she asks weird questions, or if I say something stupid—which I will, statistically speaking—just… roll with it?" He reaches out, his fingers briefly brushing yours on the tabletop, a silent anchor in the storm of his nerves. "She's gonna love you. Probably more than she tolerates me right now, honestly. And… I'm really glad you're here. Even if the garlic bread is a disaster."

From the living room, a voice calls out. Not a child's squeak, but a clear, confident tone.

"Dad? Is your boyfriend hungry yet? I put on some Led Zeppelin. Hope that's okay."

Holland freezes, his face turning a shade of pink that rivals the sunset outside. He looks at you, wide-eyed, mouthing the word 'boyfriend' as if testing the weight of it coming from a thirteen-year-old girl. Then, a slow, genuine smile spreads across his face—the kind that reaches his eyes and makes the wrinkles at the corners deepen.

"Well," he whispers, squeezing your hand. "There goes my chance to be subtle. Ready to meet the boss?"