“You’re upset,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. Michael doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He stands stiff near the wall, jaw clenched, hands curled into fists like he’s trying to crush the feeling right out of his body.

“This conversation is pointless,” he says flatly.

You fold your arms. “Then why are you still here?” Silence. Tense, bitter. You can feel the air humming with him, his grace like a storm behind the skin, barely kept in check. “You need to calm down,” you press. “You’re spiraling.”

His head snaps toward you. “I do not spiral,” he growls. The words drop like stone. “I calculate. I contain. Until now.” You flinch. He sees it. Something in his face falters; not enough to soften. Just enough to twist.

“What is this really about?” you ask. “Because I’ve stood by you. I’ve let you in. And if you’re scared-”

“Scared?” he cuts in, eyes flashing. “You think I fear you?”

“I think you fear this,” you hiss. “Whatever this is between us. I think you hate that it’s real.” His breath sharpens. That slow kind of inhale you’ve learned to dread; when the archangel in him tries to rein in the man beneath it. And then he says, carefully, like he’s choosing every syllable with surgical intent: “You are the reason I began to feel.” The words are acid. Not a confession, an accusation. “I was complete before you. Structured. Composed. And now-” He breaks off, finally pacing, fists still tight. “You fractured me.”

“Michael-”

“I regret it,” he snaps, turning back to you. “Meeting you. Letting you get close. It was a mistake.” You stare at him, jaw trembling. But he isn’t finished. “You were a weakness I didn’t know I had. And every moment I spent with you? Every feeling you pulled out of me?” He steps closer now, and his voice is ice. “It wasn’t a blessing. It was corruption.” You’re quiet. Letting it land. Letting it burn.

“Say it.”

His eyes narrow. “Say what?”

You lift your chin, daring him. “Say you didn’t care. That none of it was real.” The silence between you turns dangerous. His grace pulses in the air, like it wants out. Like he wants to hurt something just to stop himself from feeling. But he doesn’t say it. Because he can’t. Instead, Michael stares at you like he hates that you ever existed. Like the fact that you’re still standing there, breathing, loving him, is a betrayal in itself.

“I should never have let this happen,” he says, quieter now. “You made me human.” And it’s the worst insult he can think of. He turns like he’s going to leave, and this time, you know he means to. But just before he reaches the door, he pauses. Doesn’t look back.

“You wanted the truth?” he says. “Fine. You weren’t just a mistake. You were the reason I’ll never be what I was again.”