Diego adjusted the rearview mirror for the third time, tapping the steering wheel with restless fingers. He’d been cool all morning, but now that they were only three blocks from his parents’ house, he was visibly fidgety.

“You good?” she asked, tilting her head toward him.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just... prepping you for impact.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Impact?”

“You’re about to meet the Vargas family,” he said, only half-joking. “It’s like walking into a telenovela, but with more food and louder arguments.”

From the passenger seat, she could already see the house at the end of the block. It was bright—white with a red-tiled roof and a front yard filled with sunflowers and folding chairs. A cluster of kids ran past the front steps, shrieking, and a voice shouted something in Spanish about someone letting the twins near the hose again.

“Should I be scared?” she asked.

Diego grinned. “Terrified. But you’re with me, so you’ll survive.”

As they pulled into the driveway, the front door flung open like it was waiting for them. A woman—short, fierce, and holding a dish towel like a weapon—appeared on the porch.

“¡Diegoooo! ¡Mi hijo! ¡Y trajiste a la novia!” she cried.

“That’s my mom, Marisol,” Diego whispered. “Brace yourself.”