I laugh and lean into him. "Dad, he's Zach. You've known him since we were kids."
He narrows his eyes. "Exactly. I've known him as the boy you grew up with. The boy who snuck in and out of your bedroom so much he fell off the balcony and broke his arm. And the boy who ate all my barbecue ribs and blamed it on raccoons."
"Franklin..." Mom shakes her head, but she's smiling.
"Nope," he cuts in, raising a stern Dad Finger. "A boy can be the neighbor kid. A boy can be the best friend. But when a boy becomes the boyfriend..." He pokes my arm. "I need to update his file."
I blink at him. "Update his file? What file?"
"The one I've been keeping since you were born," he says, dead serious. "Color-coded. Tabs. A whole system."
Mom swats his shoulder. "You're going to scare her."
"He's not scaring me," I mutter. "He's just being dramatic."
Dad pulls me in again, hugging me tight like when I was little. "Princess," he murmurs, "when Zach shows up later, tell him to be ready. I'm warming up my interview questions."
"Oh my God," I groan into his chest. "Why are you like this?"
"Because I love you." Dad says, chuckling.
Mom just kisses my temple. "Welcome home, sweetheart."
And just like that, the house feels full again.
Later in the afternoon, Zach's pushing the cart down the baking aisle while I trail beside him, tossing ingredients in as I spot them. Brown sugar, nutmeg, marshmallows, those minimarshmallows Mom forgot—basically half the Thanksgiving menu.
We already grabbed the cute table stuff too. Pumpkin napkins, gold-trimmed plates, and those little place-card holders shaped like acorns that Zach insisted were"unnecessary"—until he saw the matching runner and put it in the cart himself.
Right now he's scanning a shelf of pie fillings like he's making some life-and-death decision, one hand on the cart handle, the other propped on his hip.
And honestly?
He looks... domestic.
Ridiculously domestic.
I keep catching myself smiling like an idiot.
It doesn't help that his family's joining us tomorrow. We haven't done Thanksgiving all together in awhile, so everyone's excited.
Mom's in charge of the classics: her citrus-brined turkey, her herbed sourdough stuffing, roasted Brussels sprouts with balsamic glaze, and her famous pumpkin soup that tastes like a warm hug.
Charlene's pulling up with the heavy hitters: her five-cheese baked mac that basically has its own fan club, buttery mashed potatoes topped with garlic chips, sweet-potato casserole with that sinful pecan crunch, grilled corn with chili-lime butter, and two giant trays of her chocolate bourbon pecan pie that people haveliterallyargued over.
Mhm, yum. My stomach is already celebrating.
Somewhere between the canned pie filling and the baking cocoa, we'd also ended up with two whole shelves' worth of candy and treats. Not for us—well, mostly not for us.
Zach tossed in another pack of fruit snacks.
"Think this is enough for the shelter bags?"
I peek into the cart. Sour gummies, chocolate bars, granola packets, mini cookie packs, trail mixes—basically a sugar-powered love letter to anyone who opens one.
"Maybe grab two more boxes of the animal crackers," I say. "Kids love those."
He grins and swings back for them without question.
