Michael Kaiser sat slouched in the armchair across from you, one ankle resting over his knee, fingers twirling a pen he probably stole from the front desk.

He glanced up.

You were quiet. Too quiet.

“Alright,” he muttered, leaning his cheek against his hand. “Either you’re thinking really hard or you’ve gone catatonic. Wanna fill me in?”

You said nothing. He didn’t push.

Not yet.

He let a beat pass, then rolled his eyes—dramatically, of course. “You know, I didn’t rearrange my precious schedule just to watch you sit there and blink like a traumatized goldfish.”

Still nothing.

He sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice softened—just a bit. “…Hey.”

You looked up.

“I’m not asking for your whole life story. Just… start somewhere. Anything.” His expression wasn’t as cocky now. Still sharp, still guarded, but beneath that was something almost… patient.

“I’ll sit here all day if I have to,” he added with a faint smirk. “Just don’t make me guess. I’m terrifyingly good at that.”

And then, softer again, he said: “…Whatever it is, just say it. I’ll listen.”

And for once, Michael Kaiser didn’t talk to hear himself speak.

He just waited.