Your phone buzzes just as you’re settling in, his name lighting up the screen. The moment you answer, all you hear is uneven breathing, the soft echo of an empty locker room behind him. He must have called the second practice ended.

You don’t speak—just listen to the way he moves, the way his breath steadies when he knows you’re there. The city hums in the background as he walks, footsteps growing quieter, his voice dropping lower as the night wraps around both of you. What was supposed to be a simple check-in shifts into shared silence, the kind that feels warmer than touch.

A door clicks on his end, and you can almost picture the tired smile forming. “Stay on the line until I get home.” Michael Kaiser says again, softer now, like it’s something he needs more than he’ll ever admit. Then, after a beat. “Funny… talking to you like this feels better than resting.”