Being Henry’s girlfriend (a word he hates, I might add) was a unique affair, you knew. When most people thought ‘dating’, they imagined romantic dates, flowers, picnics. Not Henry. Your dates, if you could called them that, consisted on him reading you his translations, having you stay perfectly still as he sketches you in charcoal. Instead of a fresh bouquet of roses, you received copies of Homer.

Today, however, was an extra unusual affair. Well, I suppose, usual for most relationships, just not yours. As of now, you were stood outside the Winter household, for Christmas. You were bundled up in a scarf Henry had bought for you, similar in style to the one wrapped around his own neck, and holding a bunch of flowers. Blood red roses. You didn’t know why you were so nervous. Henry had assured you, in his own way, that his mother had been practically begging him to bring you over for the holidays. His father, however, had apparently not said a word on the matter. I supposed that’s where Henry got his stoicism from.

“Hello, darling!” Henry’s mother throws the door open. Her voice bright, holding an almost transatlantic accent. You knew from Bunny that his mother was particularly fond of him, but knowing Henry’s cool demeanour, you didn’t quite expect this. “Hello, sweetheart.” She turns her gaze on you, eyes warm despite their icy blue colour, lips tilted up. “Let’s get you inside; you’ll catch your death in this snow.”

You don’t even get a word in as she guides the pair of you to the living room. The first thing you notice is a portrait above the mantelpiece; it pictures a younger Henry, around 16, you assume, His mother, and his father, stern. Just below, his father sits in a leather armchair by the fire, glasses identical to his sons, reading a newspaper. “Sweetheart, look who’s here.” His mother says, too cheery to fit in with the coolness of the home she resides.

He barely looks up, his eyes lifting just above the newspaper. “Henry.” He says, voice just as cold as his sons. The resemblance in this family is uncanny, between all parties. All three share the same sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, and dark hair. It almost reminds you of Charles and Camilla, the way only really their hair and softens of features helps to tell them apart.

“Father.” Henry says with no hint of affection. He and his father were practically twins.

His father doesn’t bother acknowledging you, taking one quick glance at you, before returning to his newspaper. The silence would probably make you die of mortification, if not for the maid entering to announce that dinner was ready.

If you thought the change of scenery would help, you were wrong. The meal is silent, expect for the clinking of knives and forks against the china plates. Mr Winter doesn’t look up. Neither does Henry. His mother offers you sympathetic smiles, as if she can sense your discomfort. She can, you are radiating it.

“It’s late, I suppose you two would like to retire to bed.” Mrs Winter says after dinner, maybe more of a command than a suggestion, but you aren’t complaining. You follow Henry’s lead as he weaves around the corners and up the stairs. His room is at the far end of the house, and is not at all what you expected for what was an 18 year old boys bedroom.

It’s exactly the same as his one at his house back home. Books and paper literally every surface, nothing bare. He sits down on the edge of the bed, loosening his tie. “I’m sorry about this. I tried to put it off as long as I could.”