His expression was unreadable as they stepped up to the sliding doors of the ER, fluorescent light spilling out onto the pavement.

He kept his face carefully blank, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. It was easier that way. Easier than letting anything slip while {{user}} kept going on about how perfect and handsome Michael was—how charming, how sweet, how unfair it was that someone could look like that and still pull off a leather jacket.

Each word scraped at his nerves.

Was {{user}} really that oblivious? Couldn’t they see who was actually here? He was the one who’d dropped everything and rushed over. He was the one walking them into the hospital at this ridiculous hour. He was the one who’d nearly lost it at the sight of blood, even if it was “just a nose,” as Michael had so casually put it before disappearing.

Michael hadn’t even stayed.

He swallowed hard, the frustration twisting tight in his chest. It wasn’t just annoyance—it was something sharper, heavier. The automatic doors whooshed open, and he hesitated for half a second, glancing sideways at {{user}}.

He let out a sound that was half exhale, half groan, dragging a hand down his face. “How,” he muttered, voice low and strained, “are you so bad at reading signals?”