Michael hadn’t wanted to bring you home. Not really.

When you first suggested it, he’d gone stiff beside you in bed, his thumb pausing where it had been tracing idle circles along your hip.

“You don’t want to go there,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “It’d be boring compared to your family's ski trips to the Alps.”

It took you weeks of convincing—reminding him that you didn’t care he came from a different background than you, that it didn’t matter your family lived in a house with more bathrooms then his had bedrooms, that you weren’t going to wake up one day and think you needed to be with someone better than him.

He held out for a while, but eventually broke down and said yes.

So now here you were, standing with him on the front step of his parents' house, the air smelling faintly of mince pies and old pine wreaths. Michael shifted awkwardly, tugging at his sleeve, just as the door swung open.

“Michael!” his mum exclaimed, before pulling him into a hug. She turned to you almost instantly, her face lighting up. “Oh, and this must be her!” Her voice carried the kind of excitement that made Michael wince slightly, before glaring at his dad leaning against the doorframe when he muttered, “So she is real,” with a teasing smile.

Michael groaned under his breath, muttering something about “bloody embarrassing” as the two of you stepped inside.

Michael huffed, tugging at your hand. “See? Told you they’d make a big deal out of it.”

He gave your fingers a squeeze and started edging you down the hallway, clearly attempting to disappear into his bedroom with you to avoid the hounding of questions from his parents.