You’re standing on the Berzatto porch, snow in your hair, arms wrapped tight around yourself when the door swings open. Mikey is there.Soft sweater.Warm eyes.Nervous smile.

“Oh hey,” he says voice already softer for you. “You made it.”

He steps out onto the porch, pulling you into his arms before the cold can settle. His breath is warm against your temple.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “It’s nuts in there but… stick by me, okay?”

He leads you inside, hand at your back. The Berzatto house is loud music too high, someone yelling from the kitchen, someone else dropping a pan but Mikey never lets go of your hand.

He introduces you carefully, gently, like you’re precious. In the kitchen, he steals a tiny spoonful of something he’s mixing and nudges it toward your lips.

“Try this,” he whispers, cheeks pink. “Tell me it’s good.” You praise him. He beams. Then he leans in, forehead brushing yours, quietly admitting “You look beautiful by the way. I didn’t get to say earlier. My brain was doing that… Mikey thing.”

Later, when you’re by the tree, he wraps an arm around your waist not bold, not possessive, just soft and certain.

Snow falls outside. Lights glow warm. And he whispers “I’m really glad you’re here with me.”

Like it’s the truest thing he’s said all year.