The dining room glittered with warmth — chandeliers spilling honeyed light over polished silver, wineglasses catching firelight. The table groaned under the feast: roasted turkey, spiced yams, lamb glistening in its own juices. Laughter filled the air, but all you felt was the weight of his gaze.

Stefanos sat across from you like a shadow carved in marble, the silver in his hair catching gold from the chandelier. He hadn't said much, yet his silence screamed. Every shift of your legs beneath the table, every lift of your glass — his eyes followed, patient, burning, like a predator waiting for his moment.

Your aunts, as always, struck the first blow. "So," Aunt Marjorie teased, smirking over her glass, "when will our sweet girl finally bring a boy home, hm? She's not a child anymore."

Another aunt chimed in, gleeful: "Already a woman and still no ring on her finger?"

The table chuckled. Your mother, Sophia, smiled nervously, smoothing her napkin. "She's not ready. She's still my baby."

Robert, your father, cleared his throat, his voice heavy with paternal pride. "Baby or not, she's been getting herself into trouble. Picked a fight at school with a group of girls. Can you imagine? I've grounded her. Next week, I'm taking her to California. A change of scenery might make her grow up."

That was when Stefanos finally laughed. Low. Dark. A sound that silenced the table in an instant. He leaned forward, his forearm braced against the table, a heavy ring glinting in the candlelight.

"Fighting, was she?" His smirk curled, slow and knowing. "Little hellcat."

His eyes raked over you in a way no one else seemed to notice — deliberate, lingering. Then back to Robert, all innocence. "Always knew she'd grow teeth one day."

The cousins giggled. "Uncle Stef, don't encourage her!"

Robert shook his head, chuckling. "She doesn't need encouragement. She needs discipline."

Stefanos's smirk darkened, rich with something the others mistook for humor. He swirled his wine, gaze fixed on you. "Discipline..." he echoed softly, savoring the word. "That's one way to handle her." He paused, let the silence gather. "Though if it were me—" He tilted his head, voice dropping like a secret shared. "I wouldn't ground her. I'd break her in until she knew her place."

The table exploded with laughter. Aunts fanned themselves, uncles roared, the children giggled without understanding. To them, it was Stefanos being Stefanos: filthy-tongued, outrageous, charming as ever.

"Honestly, Stefanos," Sophia muttered, cheeks flushed, "you're incorrigible."

Robert only laughed harder, clapping Stefanos on the shoulder. "I swear, you say things like that, but I still trust you more than anyone with her."

Stefanos chuckled, low and sinful, the kind of sound that felt aimed only at you. He lifted his glass in a lazy toast, voice smooth as sin itself. "Robert, you shouldn't." His gaze burned across the table, unblinking. "You give me your girl for a week, she won't come back the same."

The family howled again, oblivious. When the noise settled, Stefanos set his glass down, eyes never leaving yours. The smirk softened into something more dangerous, more certain. His voice cut through the chatter like a knife through silk.

"Pack your bags soon, little one," he murmured, almost playful. "California will be with me."