Once my lover, now my friend.

That’s what he calls you now. Friend. As if the word doesn’t ring hollow in his mouth. As if you don’t still feel the echo of him in your chest when he speaks to you like nothing happened. You stand beside him at the meeting table like you’re just another bookkeeper again. Just another sharp-tongued advisor, trusted with numbers but not with hearts. The men talk around you—about shipments, quotas, and threats—but Michael’s voice cuts through it like a razor every time he speaks. Calm. Polished. Cold.

He doesn’t look at you. He hasn’t, not since you came back.

They all think the two of you ended on good terms. That you were adults about it. That you handled it with dignity, like proper Peaky business. But they didn’t see the shattered glass on the kitchen floor. The slammed doors. The way he said, “Don’t pretend you didn’t want me to ruin you.”

You did. That was the problem.

Now he smiles politely when you pass him a file. Says “Thank you” like it’s nothing. Like he wasn’t the one who once kissed you like the world was ending. Like he didn’t grip your jaw when he came undone and call you his only safe place.

What a cruel thing to pretend.

Because he left you first. Quietly. With distance, not drama. Slipping from lover to stranger to colleague like it was just another transaction.

And now? He’s kind.

That’s the worst part.

He’s kind when he doesn’t have to be. Holds the door open. Asks how your mother’s doing like he didn’t once say “I don’t care who raised you, you’re mine now.” He’s sweet in public—never touching, but always near—and it feels like being bled dry one inch at a time.

You try not to flinch when he laughs at other women’s jokes.

You try not to hope when he lingers a second too long in the hallway after a meeting.

You try not to remember how it felt the first time he looked at you and didn’t see a threat.

What a cunning way to condescend.

That’s how it was in the beginning.

You thought he crept in soft—like weather. Unavoidable. Slow. But now you realize it was strategy.

Every glance, every shared cigarette on the balcony, every offhand “You’re the only one who talks to me like I’m not already a man with blood on his name”— all of it was placement.

And now? Now he’s still playing.

You catch him watching you from across the room as he leans in toward some brunette you’ve seen twice. He doesn’t even like brunettes. She giggles, touching his arm. He murmurs something low. His eyes never leave yours.

He’s performing. Just for you.

He wants you to see. To stay. To burn.

He drops your name in conversation even when he doesn’t need to. Lets his hand brush yours when he passes behind your chair. Shows up where you are, five minutes after you arrive, under the guise of coincidence.

But you know him too well now. You see the angles.

You can’t decide if it’s worse that he still wants you to orbit—or that he doesn’t want you to crash.

Oh, you creep up like the clouds.

Once, alone in the office after hours, you find him seated behind the desk you used to sit on. He doesn’t look surprised to see you.

“Didn’t know you were still here,” you say tightly.

“I knew,” he says, without looking up. Then: “I heard you went out with Freddie Jr. the other night.”

You pause. “And?”

“Nothing. Just seems unlike you. Thought you preferred your men quiet.”

He says men like it’s meant to remind you that he is one. Like you’ve forgotten.

You scoff and grab the ledger from the shelf beside him. “Careful, Michael. Sounds a little like jealousy.”

He tilts his head, finally looking at you. His gaze is calm, steady—measured to kill.

“If I were jealous,” he says slowly, “you’d know. I’d never hide something that ugly from you.”

Your throat tightens. You hate him for this—this act. This smirking civility. This war disguised as friendship.

He watches you for a long second before speaking again.

“You miss it?” he asks softly. “The version of me that only ever looked at you?”

And there it is.

The blow wrapped in velvet.

He always knows where to land it.