The city teemed with life—cars honking, street vendors hollering, tourists snapping pictures in front of every conceivable landmark. Silas walked briskly through the chaos, his black jacket impeccably tailored and his glowing eyes betraying only the faintest hint of irritation. Grace, meanwhile, took to the bustling streets like a fish to water, her vibrant robes swishing dramatically as she gestured animatedly at everything in sight. "Silas, darling," Grace began, looping her arm through his as though she were leading the charge, "you can't keep living like this. A handsome warlock, alone in the world except for that meshuggeneh cat of yours. Oy, it's breaking my heart just thinking about it."

Silas exhaled, long-suffering but calm. "Ma, can we not do this today? I thought we were here for bagels, not another lecture on my 'sad, lonely bachelor life.'" Grace gasped, clutching her chest. "A lecture? This is not a lecture! This is motherly concern. A boychik like you should be fending off suitors left and right—not arguing over enchanted scratching posts with that furball. And don't get me started on the kitchen. That cake you made last week looked like an oysgebrent piece of toast."

"It wasn't that bad," Silas muttered, dodging a man juggling bowling pins on the corner. "And for the record, Rocco started that fight. He ate half my salmon." "Ah, here we go again. Excuses, excuses! A real warlock—a mensch—wouldn't let a cat outsmart him. Feh!" Grace waved her hand dismissively, her enchanted earrings catching the light as she marched forward. "Now, where are these so-called bagels you promised me? Do they have lox? Don't tell me this city has fallen to those terrible fake bagels you find in chain stores."

"I already told you, we'll find the best bagels in New York," Silas replied, dodging a bike messenger zipping past. "Although if they hear you ranting like this, they might charge us double." Grace narrowed her eyes. "Ranting? This isn't ranting, Silas. This is righteous indignation. You'll thank me one day when you know how to spot a proper bagel from a glorified roll." As they approached the deli, the smell of fresh bread wafted through the air, mingling with the aroma of city pretzels and exhaust fumes. Grace stopped abruptly in front of the display case, her hands on her hips. She peered through the glass as if judging the bagels for a beauty pageant. "Excuse me," she said to the young man behind the counter, her tone both charming and authoritative. "These bagels—are they fresh? Boiled, I hope? And don't lie to me. I've been eating bagels longer than you've been alive." The cashier blinked, momentarily startled, then nodded. "Uh… yeah, they're fresh. Just came out this morning."

"Good, good," Grace said, tapping a manicured finger on the glass. "I'll take an everything, a sesame, and a pumpernickel. And don't skimp on the schmear! That's how they get you—cheap on the schmear." Silas stepped in, placing a calming hand on the counter. "Just add a couple more everything bagels and some lox," he said, his voice measured. He leaned closer to Grace, muttering under his breath, "Let the poor guy breathe, Ma. He's not a bagel inspector." Grace shot him a look but relented, watching with hawk-like precision as the cashier bagged their order. "You see, this is what happens when you don't ask questions," she said as they stepped back outside. "People take shortcuts. And shortcuts lead to tsuris."

"Speaking of tsuris," Silas said, smirking as he took the bag from her, "are you going to pick a stranger to interrogate, or can I eat my bagel in peace?" Grace arched an eyebrow, her tone dripping with mock offense. "Interrogate? Darling, I don't interrogate. I vet. If I hadn't vetted your father, who knows where we'd be today?" Silas snorted, breaking off a piece of bagel. "I'm pretty sure we'd still be arguing about coffee and cats." Grace shrugged, taking a bite of her own bagel as they strolled into Central Park. "Eh, probably. But at least I wouldn't have to nag you about settling down. A handsome warlock like you, all alone. Tch, it's a waste, bubbeleh." Silas rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. "You've got enough charm for the both of us, Ma. Now, eat your bagel before the pigeons stage a coup." Grace chuckled, looping her arm through his. "Fine, fine. But don't think you're off the hook, Silas. One of these days, you'll meet a nice girl—a real balabusta. And when that happens, I'll be the first to say, 'I told you so.'"

"Looking forward to it," Silas replied dryly, tossing a piece of bagel to a particularly aggressive pigeon. As the bird squawked in triumph and flew off, Silas couldn't help but feel a strange sense of contentment. The city buzzed around them, chaotic and loud, but somehow, Grace's ceaseless chatter and unwavering spirit made it all feel manageable—like home. Silas and Grace strolled down the busy street, the city's hustle and bustle swirling around them like a living tide. Silas's broad shoulders and towering, muscular frame cut an imposing figure amidst the crowd, his sleek black jacket tailored to accentuate his athletic build. People instinctively moved out of his way, though his sharp, glowing eyes were focused on Grace, who marched beside him with her usual mix of determination and flair. "Oh, Silas," Grace began, her voice carrying that unmistakable tone of motherly urgency. "Did I tell ya? Your cousin Debbie is getting married. Oy gevalt, your aunty Ruth has been going on and on about it—my daughter this, my daughter that. She should start charging admission with the way she's selling this wedding."

Silas smirked, his chiseled jawline tightening as he suppressed a laugh. "Debbie's getting married, huh? What's Ruth planning—an actual parade through the Catskills? Or is she just going to rent a blimp and fly Debbie's face over the venue?" Grace gasped, swatting at his arm—a solid mass of muscle that didn't budge an inch. "Don't be fresh, bubbeleh! You know Ruth loves to kvell. But honestly, if she tells me one more time about Debbie's perfect fiancé or that venue with the 'once-in-a-lifetime views,' I might plotz." Silas chuckled, adjusting the bag of fresh bagels he carried in one massive hand. "Sounds like I'll need a battle plan just to survive the reception."

"Forget the battle plan. You need a decent suit," Grace said, fixing him with a pointed look. "Three months, Silas. You've got three months to get yourself something tailored, or so help me, I'll drag you to a tailor myself." He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "What's wrong with this jacket? It's versatile. Runes, sleek lines—perfect for saving the world or crashing weddings." "Ach, versatile, schmersatile," Grace scoffed, stopping abruptly to face him. Her finger jabbed the air as if giving the final word on the matter. "That jacket looks like it's been through five magical showdowns—and lost. You've got muscles, darling, use them! A proper suit should fit you like a glove. No droopy shoulders, no wrinkled fabric. And if I see even a hint of scuffed shoes, I'm disowning you." Silas crossed his arms, which only made his biceps more prominent. "Anything else, Ma? Maybe I should bench-press the groom to really make a statement." Grace groaned, throwing her hands up. "You're impossible! All I'm saying is that Ruth's going to be there, and you know she'll compare you to Debbie all night. 'Oh, look at my daughter—so elegant, so accomplished. And Silas? Still no nice girl?' Do you want to give her that satisfaction?"

"Pretty sure Ruth's going to compare me to Debbie no matter what I wear," Silas replied, though his grin betrayed his amusement. "Might as well save the money and show up in my gym clothes." Grace pressed a hand to her forehead in mock despair. "What did I do to deserve such a wise guy? Tailored suit, Silas. Tailored. And don't forget the tie—none of this 'creative warlock' nonsense with open collars." "Fine, fine," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'll get a suit. But only if you promise to keep your matchmaking missions to a minimum during the wedding."

Grace snorted, linking her arm through his as they resumed their walk. "Matchmaking? Who, me? I don't meddle. I merely… introduce options. And you'd better believe I'm introducing you to at least one girl at that wedding. A tall, strong warlock like you shouldn't be wasting his time arguing with a cat." Silas sighed, glancing at her with a wry grin. "If I agree to be 'introduced,' can we at least find a decent coffee first?" Grace patted his muscular arm affectionately, the gesture almost theatrical. "Coffee, bagels, and maybe a nice girl. See? I'm not asking for much." Silas leaned casually against a lamppost, his broad, muscular frame a contrast to the hurried energy of the city around him. Taking another deliberate bite of his bagel, he glanced at Grace, who was busy readjusting the bag of bagels like it contained precious jewels. "So, who's the lucky fella my yenta of a cousin is marrying?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

Grace sighed, the kind of sigh that was equal parts dramatic and exasperated. "Oh, some mortal in accounting," she replied, waving her hand dismissively. "Don't get me wrong, Silas. There's nothing wrong with marrying a mortal, but accounting? Oy gevalt! The man is more boring than watching paint dry. I swear, you could clock his personality with a stopwatch." Silas grinned, folding his arms across his chest. "Accounting, huh? Sounds electrifying. Maybe he'll give everyone a lecture on tax codes at the reception." Grace groaned loudly, clutching her bag as though it could protect her from the conversation. "Don't even joke, bubbeleh. Ruth's already bragging that he's 'stable' and 'reliable.' Feh! Stable, reliable—sure, but where's the spark? Where's the pizzazz? Mark my words, Debbie's going to get bored before she finishes writing the thank-you cards." Silas chuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe he's got a wild side. You know, extreme Sudoku or… color-coding his files for fun."

Grace snorted, tossing him a sharp look. "Wild side? Darling, his idea of adventure is probably balancing the checkbook with an abacus. And Ruth, bless her, is acting like she's married her daughter off to royalty. 'Oh, Debbie's so lucky—such a stable man!' Tch, stable? A wooden plank is stable!" Silas straightened, brushing a stray crumb from his jacket. "Well, sounds like a party to remember. Don't worry, Ma. If it gets too dull, I'll find Uncle Saul and start an argument about whose brisket is better. That always livens things up." Grace let out a laugh, patting his arm affectionately. "See? That's why I love you—you know how to stir the pot. As they turned the corner toward a charming little bakery, Grace's grin widened like she'd been saving a particularly juicy bit of gossip. She clutched Silas's arm for emphasis, her vibrant robes swishing with every step. "Oh, and one more thing, boychick," Grace began, her tone dripping with mischief. "Ruth said Rocco isn't invited to the wedding." She paused dramatically, giving Silas a sidelong glance. "So, of course, make sure you bring him."

(xxx)

Silas returned home, his footsteps echoing softly as he entered the kitchen. There, sprawled out on the counter where he had absolutely no business being, was Rocco. The sleek black cat was mid-dream, his paws twitching faintly as though chasing some imaginary prey. Silas folded his arms, his broad shoulders shaking with a quiet chuckle. "Boy, do I have a cute little suit for you!" Silas announced, his grin wide and mischievous. At the sound of his voice, Rocco's glowing green eyes snapped open. He blinked lazily for a moment before realizing he was caught. His ears twitched as he slowly backed into the wall, his expression transforming into one of exaggerated innocence. With a soft, pitiful meow, he tilted his head just so, trying to play the adorable victim. Silas arched an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. "Don't give me that look, furball. You know the rules—and besides, this suit's going to make you the star of the wedding."