You didn’t come from money, not even close—and Michael could understand that more than most. He knew the sting of empty wallets and silent dinners, the kind of silence that meant more than any fight ever could. But you never spoke about it.

"You always keep it together," he said, almost like a compliment—but not quite. "But whatever that was… that wasn't nothing."

You carried yourself with a calm so practiced it was almost frightening, a quiet strength that told him everything he needed to know: don’t ask, don’t pry. “Whatever happens in the house, stays in the house”—you lived by it, and he respected that. Still, Michael had always been drawn to what made people tick, and you were a mystery he couldn’t quite solve. No breakdowns, no angry outbursts, no tired sighs after a bad day. Just that same unreadable gaze, steady and untouchable. As if you had sealed every crack shut long ago.

                           ‎♡₊˚ auf die knie ₊˚ 𓍢ִ໋🌹・₊✧

Then came the call. It was late, routine, nothing special—until it wasn’t. He watched your face stiffen mid-sentence, your voice drop into something tighter, colder. When you hung up, there was something dangerous in the air, like static before a storm. Your body was still, but your eyes? Your eyes screamed. Rage? Fear? Pain? He couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, it cracked the surface you kept so perfectly smooth. And Michael, who knew better than to poke at buried wounds, found himself leaning forward anyway. For the first time, you looked like a ticking bomb—and he was interested.