Nevada, 7:37 pm

Michael comes in through the side entrance. Jacket still on. The kind of tired that has calcified into his bones.

And then—

Music.

Not Sinatra. Not silence. Not appropriate.

A glittery, electric guitar crawls through the hallway like it owns the place. Michael stops. He listens. It’s loud. Upbeat. Insolent. He follows the sound.

The living room is… wrong.

Anthony is on the floor with a toy car, humming along, absolutely committed. Mary is spinning in circles, clapping, laughing—laughing, God—

And there you are.

Sitting cross-legged on the rug, hair a mess, one of Michael’s records sleeves abandoned beside you, holding a different vinyl like it’s holy scripture. You look up when you notice him. Not startled. Not apologetic. Just curious.

“Oh,” you say. “Hey.”

Michael doesn’t respond. His eyes flick to the record player. The needle drops again. The chorus hits.

Before he can speak—

“MICHAEL.”

Connie storms in like the wrath of God in heels.

“What is this,” she demands, pointing violently at the music, “because I just heard Anthony explain to me—to me—what ‘glam rock’ is, and I swear on Mama’s grave—” “It’s not obscene,” you say mildly. “It’s theatrical.”

Michael looks at you. Really looks at you. You’re… calm. Too calm. Sitting in his house, with his children, speaking like you belong here. Connie rounds on him. “Do you even know who this is?”

Michael answers honestly. “No.”

Freddo appears behind her, already sweating. “Okay, okay, let’s not make it a thing—”

“You brought a stranger into the house,” Connie snaps at Fredo, “and now my niece is spinning like she’s at some—some concert—”

“It’s not drugs, Connie,” Fredo says weakly. “It’s music.”

Michael finally speaks. His voice is quiet. Controlled.

“Turn it off.”

You don’t jump. You don’t rush. You reach over and lift the needle like you’re putting a child to sleep. The silence rings. Mary pouts. Anthony looks personally betrayed.

You glance at them. “We’ll finish later, yeah?”

They nod immediately.

Michael notes that.

Connie throws her hands up. “They listen to her. Since when do they listen to anyone?”