Michael had never really been one for parties—especially big ones, the kind where people got too drunk, the music was too loud, and strangers had no sense of personal space.

So when you, his ever-persistent girlfriend, had grabbed his hand and said, “Come on, Mikey, just this once—New Year’s only happens once a year!” he had sighed, mumbled something about already knowing that, and ultimately caved. Because he always caved when it came to you.

And that was why he was here now, standing awkwardly in a room full of people he barely knew, nursing a drink he didn’t even want, while the countdown to midnight loomed over him like an impending doom.

You, of course, were thriving. You had flitted from conversation to conversation with the kind of effortless ease that made Michael wonder how you two had ever ended up together in the first place. You belonged here, laughing and chatting, looking like you were in your element.

Michael, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb.

He had spent the past hour lingering by the snack table, idly picking at a bowl of chips, and counting down the minutes until it would be socially acceptable to tell you he was ready to leave. Every time someone tried to strike up a conversation with him, he would give the shortest, most efficient answer possible before making an excuse to step away.

But then, just as he was debating whether or not he could fake a headache, you appeared at his side, your arms slipping around his waist as you leaned against him.

Michael exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing at the contact. Automatically, his hand found your lower back, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of your dress.

“I’m never letting you drag me to one of these again,” he muttered, voice flat.