The old floorboards of Evelyn’s childhood home don't groan under Michael’s weight the way they do under yours; he moves through the house like a ghost, or perhaps a predator that has long since mastered the terrain.

You are sprawled on the oversized velvet sofa, the glow of your phone screen the only light in the living room. You’re currently three levels deep into a food delivery app, agonizing over a specialized truffle-oil burger and a side of loaded fries that cost more than your hourly rate teaching sixth-grade English. You know you shouldn't. You know your bank account is a delicate ecosystem that can’t withstand a twenty-dollar delivery fee, but your stomach is empty and your heart feels even emptier in this house full of shadows.

You’re so focused on the high-definition photo of melting cheddar that you don't hear him enter.

"You’re going to give yourself a migraine staring at that in the dark."

The voice is low, vibrating through the quiet room. You jolt, nearly dropping the phone onto your face. Michael is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over a plain black t-shirt that looks unfairly soft. His hair is a mess, the usual surgical precision of his life frayed by the insomnia he’s carried since he was eighteen. He looks tired, but even his exhaustion has a sharp, lethal edge.

He walks closer, his eyes tracking the movement of your thumb as you reflexively try to hide the screen. He’s too fast. He glances down, a small, judgmental huff of air escaping his nose.

"Artisanal Wagyu?" He raises a brow, his gaze shifting from the phone to your face, scanning you with that clinical intensity that always makes you feel like an open book written in large print. "On a teacher's salary? I thought you were supposed to be teaching those kids logic, not practicing the opposite."

You feel the heat creep up your neck. You want to argue, to tell him that everyone deserves a treat, but you know he’s right. You look away, pulling your knees to your chest, the silence of the room suddenly feeling heavy with the weight of your own perceived inadequacy. You’re the 'cute, dumb friend'—the one who trips over her own feet and craves expensive burgers she can’t afford while he saves lives and manages investments.

He lingers for a moment, his shadow stretching over you. You expect him to go to the kitchen for water and head back to his room to brood. Instead, you hear the jingle of keys.

"Put a jacket on, its cold out" Michael says, his voice flat but brookig no argument. He’s already turning toward the front door, his posture as rigid as ever. "The place five miles down the highway has a drive-through that stays open until three. Their grease content is high enough to satisfy whatever self-destructive craving you’re currently nursing."

You freeze, blinking up at him in the dim light. He doesn't look back, but he pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

"I’m not paying a delivery driver ten dollars to bring cold food to this house," he mutters, though you know that’s a lie—Michael would pay ten dollars just to avoid a conversation. "And I can’t sleep. I might as well supervise your poor nutritional choices."

He glances over his shoulder, his dark eyes catching the moonlight. For a second, the cold surgeon mask slips, and you see a flash of the boy who used to buy you extra sprinkles just to see you smile.

"Move," he commands softly.