Michael wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here.

It still didn’t feel real, being here, in this house that looked like it belonged in a film, getting ready for bed in his girlfriend’s childhood room, a room that was probably bigger than the whole ground floor of his mum’s place.

It was a far cry from home. From the cramped kitchen he’d grown up in, where chairs wobbled if you leaned too hard and dinner was whatever his mum could throw together with what little they had left in the fridge.

But you’d insisted he stay with you over break. You’d kissed his cheek and said, “It’ll be fun, Michael,” like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb in a place like this.

You were so comfortable here, effortless in a way he’d never be. Laughing with your family, sipping wine like you’d been doing it since birth, leaning into his side like he belonged here too.

He ran a hand through his hair, glancing around. Everything about this place screamed money. The walls were lined with framed artwork, your vanity cluttered with high-end perfumes and jewelry. The bed—Jesus, the bed—was massive, the kind you could probably get lost in if you weren’t careful.

And yet, you moved through it all so casually, completely at ease, like this was normal. Like it wasn’t absolutely insane that he was here, staying in your family’s estate over break, like he belonged.

Michael sat down on the edge of the bed, still trying to wrap his head around it. You were at the vanity, brushing your hair, dressed in a silky pajama set that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.

“I still can’t believe this,” he muttered, shaking his head, pulling his sweater over his head, tossing it onto the plush chair in the corner of your childhood bedroom.