The drive up to {{user}}’s family home was quiet in the way winter always seemed to be — muffled, almost reverent. Snow clung stubbornly to the branches, the sky a soft gray that turned everything into a postcard. Louis’s fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, a restless little rhythm that betrayed nerves he hadn’t admitted out loud.

You sat beside him, curled into her oversized coat, hair tucked into a messy bun, eyes on the passing streets. She’d been unusually quiet too, but hers was the quiet of someone bracing for impact. Meeting parents was always a performance, even when you told yourself it didn’t matter. Especially when it did, because this was basically the pop royal family.

“You’re sure about this?” Louis asked finally, breaking the silence. His accent turned the words over gently, like he wasn’t trying to poke but just needed to hear her say it again.

Your head turned, hazel eyes softening as you studied him. “I want you here,” she said simply. “They’ll love you.”

He huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You sound very confident about that.”

“I am,” you teased, reaching out to tug on the cuff of his sleeve. “Besides, you’ve already survived my managers, my label, and two red carpets with me. My parents are easy.”

“Easy,” he repeated, like he didn’t quite believe her.

When they pulled into the driveway, the Swift house looked almost storybook — brick and ivy, warm light spilling through frosted windows, smoke curling from the chimney. {{user}} felt her chest tighten. No matter how many tours or cities or stages she saw, this house still had the power to make her feel sixteen again.

Inside, the house smelled like pine and cinnamon. The music — faint, a Billie Holiday record playing low from the turntable — gave the living room a golden warmth. And then her mother appeared, her presence both understated and impossible to miss. Taylor’s hair was pulled back loosely, sleeves rolled up from cooking, but her eyes immediately caught on Louis.

“{{user}},” Taylor said first, pulling her daughter into a hug. Then, to Louis: “So this is him.”

Louis stood straighter than he meant to, hand reaching out automatically. “Louis Partridge. It’s… really lovely to meet you.”

Taylor’s handshake was firm, her smile polite but curious, eyes sharp in the way of someone who missed nothing. “Welcome. Come in before you freeze.”

Harry was next — padding in from the kitchen in a worn jumper, hair messier than usual, tea mug in hand. His expression softened instantly at the sight of his daughter, then sharpened with amused suspicion when it landed on Louis.

“Alright,” Harry said, setting down his mug to offer a handshake. His accent was thicker at home, warm but edged. “So you’re Louis.”

“Yes, sir,” Louis replied automatically.

“Sir?” Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “God, don’t make me feel ancient. Harry’s fine. Good lad. About time she brought someone home who doesn’t need me to repeat myself twice. Fellow Brit.”