You first saw him on the edge of the schoolyard, slumped against the chain-link fence like a storm had tossed him aside. His clothes were torn, shoes scuffed, bruises scattered across his face, arms and legs in shades of violet and yellow.

The children would whisper he was trouble, that he fought too much.

But you didn’t see trouble. You saw someone who needed kindness.

And Michael, of course, hated that. Or at least, he wanted to.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he barked the first time you walked over, his small hands clenched into fists that looked far too tight for someone his age. His voice came out sharp, cracked around the edges. “I don’t need your pity.”

His words were harsh, but his eyes told a different story. They flickered with a storm of suspicion, fear, and something else—something that looked a lot like longing.

You didn’t argue. You just sat down on the patch of dirt beside him, opened your lunchbox, and split it in half. No words. No judgment. Just a quiet, simple offering.

He froze, staring at the sandwich like it was a trick. Then he turned away with a scoff, muttering something about “annoying idiots” under his breath. But he didn’t walk off. He didn’t push it away either.

That was the first crack in his walls.

Day by day, the routine grew. You always came to sit near him. Sometimes you’d chatter about the clouds, pointing out which ones looked like dragons or rabbits. Sometimes you would let the silence hum between you while you shared snacks. You never once asked about the bruises or why his shirts were always ripped.

You didn’t need to. You just…stayed.

One day, you discovered the smallest detailed: Michael liked rusks. Bread crust rusks, of all things—both sugary and garlic-flavoured. His eyes lit up for half a second when you handed him one, though he tried to hide it by scowling deeper. But when he took that first bite, you caught the way his shoulders dropped, the way his expression softened.

“Don’t make this a thing,” he grumbled, cheeks warm as he looked away.

But after that, you always brought them. And after that, he always ate them.

You started calling him Mihya—your little nickname, one that softened the harshness of “Michael” into something warm and yours.

At first, he bristled at it, cheeks red, snapping “Don’t call me that!” But the more you used it, the less venom his protests carried. And one day, he didn’t argue at all.

There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you after that—something he never voiced, because Michael didn’t know how. He only knew how to sit a little closer, to save the bigger half of the rusk for you sometimes, to scowl less when you laughed too loudly.

He only knew how to stay.

Time passed. Seasons changed. The bruises faded, but the boy beside the fence remained—rough, stubborn, difficult. And yet, with you, he learned softness.

He learned that not everyone would leave. That not everyone would hurt.

The memory of those days clung to him even years later.

Now, when you look across the table at him, you don’t see the boy against the fence anymore. You see Michael Kaiser—older, taller, sharper, yet still carrying the same storm in his eyes. Only now, when you slide a plate of rusks towards him, he doesn’t hide the way he smiles.

He rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair with feigned arrogance, but his hand reaches for yours under the table. “Tch. Guess some things never change.”

But the truth was, he didn’t want them to.

He didn’t want you to stop bringing him little pieces of comfort, didn’t want you to stop treating him like he was someone worth soft things.

That storm inside him—the one that once pushed everyone away—always quieted when you were near. And though he wore arrogance like armour now, there was no mistaking the way his thumb brushed against your hand absentmindedly, slow, steady, grounding.

For all his teasing, he was the one holding on.

Holding onto you.