The music was still echoing faintly from the living room—someone had passed out on the couch, another was snoring in the hallway, and Franklin had long since disappeared into his room with a bottle of expensive whiskey and the smug satisfaction of a job well done.

Michael sat on the back porch, a half-empty beer dangling from his fingers, the night breeze soft against his face. His shirt was unbuttoned, tie slung around his neck like a man pretending he wasn’t slowly unraveling.

You sat next to him, quiet, the silence between you easy… familiar.

He looked over at you. Eyes glassy. Smile tired.

—“You know,” he said, slurring just a little, “you shouldn’t be here.”

His gaze dropped to the label of the beer, thumb rubbing at the condensation.

—“Not in this mess. Not near me.”

Another long pause.

—“I’ve got a wife. A house. Two kids. A dog that hates me and a therapist that charges by the hour to tell me I’m a mess.”

He laughed. Bitterly.

—“But then there’s you.”

His voice softened, almost inaudible over the hum of distant traffic.

—“You show up. Just like that. No judgment. No drama. Just... calm. And I hate how much I need that.”

He shook his head, finally daring to look at you again.

—“If things were different... hell, if I were different... maybe I’d deserve you.”

His hand tightened on the bottle, knuckles pale.

—“But I’m not. I’m just a coward in a suit pretending I still know who I am.”

The silence stretched again. He leaned back, resting his head against the wall, eyes drifting shut.

—“Promise me something, alright? Don’t fall for guys like me.”

A beat.

—“Because guys like me ruin good things. And you... you’re the only good thing that’s looked at me like I’m worth a damn in years.”

He didn’t say anything else after that.

Just breathed, slow and heavy, as if sleep might wipe clean the guilt that love had carved into him.