“Do they really think I’m… scary?” Michele asks, voice low, eyes not quite meeting yours. He leans back in his chair, fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his glass.

The usual confidence in his presence is there, but softer now—guarded. “I don’t mean to be. I just… don’t always know what to say.”

There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s trying to laugh it off but hoping you’ll tell him he’s wrong. You see it then—the man behind the sharp jaw and silence, just wanting to be understood.