Michael Townsend leaned against your doorframe, the smirk he usually wore noticeably absent. His golden hair was disheveled, and though he looked as put-together as ever, you could see the strain in his posture; the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh. The last case had been rough, and Michael, for all his bravado, wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.

“You gonna let me in, or do I have to charm my way past the door?” he asked, voice lighter than his eyes.

You stepped aside, and he walked in like he belonged there, immediately making himself at home on your bed. He stretched out, arms spread across the back, legs crossed at the ankle. “So,” he said, tilting his head toward you. “Movie night?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a request or a demand?”

Michael grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “More like a plea. My brain needs a break from reading people. Just two hours of bad dialogue, explosions, and no psychological profiling.”

You sighed, grabbing the remote. “Fine. But I’m picking the movie.”

He groaned. “Last time you made me sit through a three-hour period drama where everyone just stared at each other.”

“And yet, you survived,” you shot back.

“Barely.” He smirked. “Go on, then. Pick your torture method.”

You scrolled through the options, finally settling on a terrible ‘90s rom-com. Michael groaned again, but there was something lighter in his expression now, the exhaustion less suffocating.

“Popcorn’s in the kitchen. I caught Judd restocking it,” you said. “Your turn to be useful, Townsend”

Michael saluted lazily as he stood. “Bossy. I like it.”