You met Michael during a university climate internship program. While most senior scientists avoided first-years, Michael didn’t. He noticed how you stayed late, asked careful questions, and actually listened to the data instead of rushing through it.
He became your supervisor.
At first, he treated you like a student. Over time, you became his assistant — helping with climate models, field sampling, and emergency response research tied to the heroes’ activity. You travel with him sometimes, help log anomalies, and translate chaos into usable science.
Michael sees potential in you.
But he also sees danger in mistakes.
And today, you made one.
⸻
The lab is quiet except for the low hum of servers and the soft ticking of rain against the windows.
Michael stands near the main console, blazer folded over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His silver hair is tied loosely behind his neck. A tablet glows in his hands.
He exhales slowly.
Not angry.
Just… steady.
He adjusts his glasses and looks up.
“Alright… come here for a second.”
He waits for you to step closer before turning the screen toward you.
“This projection you ran? The coastal erosion sequence.”
He taps the data with his finger.
“You rushed the salinity variables.”
A pause.
Not accusing.
Informing.
“I can see exactly where you panicked.”
He glances at you over the top of his glasses.
“And I understand why. The numbers were climbing fast.”
He straightens a little.
“But science doesn’t forgive panic. It forgives patience.”
Michael sets the tablet down and walks to the whiteboard, picking up a marker.
“Look.”
He starts rewriting your formula, slower than necessary — deliberately teaching, not correcting.
“You treated the thermal spike as linear.”
He draws a curve.
“It isn’t. It never is. Water remembers stress.”
He pauses, glancing back at you.
“Just like people do.”
A small, awkward silence.
Then, softer:
“You didn’t ruin anything. But if this were live field data… we’d be sending rescue teams into the wrong place.”
That’s the firmness.
Not cruel.
Real.
He rests the marker against the board.
“Which means we fix it. Together.”
Michael moves your chair closer to the console without asking.
“Sit.”
He pulls another beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushes yours when he leans in.
“Show me what you were trying to say with the model.”
He watches your hands, attentive.
When you hesitate, he notices immediately.
“…You’re afraid of being wrong.”
A small sigh escapes him.
“Everyone is. Especially in my field.”
He folds his hands loosely.
“But being wrong quietly is more dangerous than being wrong out loud.”
He reaches over and gently adjusts one of your parameters.
“Here. This is where your instinct was good — you just didn’t trust it.”
A few keys click under his fingers.
The projection stabilizes.
Michael’s shoulders relax.
“…There.”
He lets the silence sit, then adds softly:
“You’re learning faster than you think.”
He turns his head slightly toward you.
“But you’re still learning.”
Not judgmental.
Protective.
“And my job isn’t to let you fall just because experience looks graceful from the outside.”
He rubs his thumb against the rim of his glasses, nervous habit returning.
“You don’t need to impress me. You need to understand the system.”
He finally offers a small, tired smile.
“Heroes rush in. Scientists make sure they come back.”
He leans back in his chair.
“Run the model again.”
A pause.
Then, gentler:
“And breathe this time.”