The coat looked out of place on the boy. It clashed with the rest of his ratty, hole riddled clothes. Michael had watched as you pressed a wad of cash in the boy’s hand with confusion (and shock) overwhelming him.

First, the kid had tried to pickpocket you— the cashier had caught him attempting to slip your wallet out. Second, this was completely unlike you. He had, without a doubt, been expecting you to lash out, maybe call the cops.

The same way everyone would at him during the early years of his life.

But, all you did was reach into your bag and offer the boy money, enough for him to be able to buy himself dinner. And probably a few days’ meals, too. He felt like he was looking at a different person all of a sudden— not the woman who walked with her nose pointed to the sky and looked at everyone like they were garbage. Were there hidden cameras somewhere?

With your coat gone, you were left in nothing but your too short dress. He begrudgingly shed his and unceremoniously dumped it over her shoulders. For a good image— that’s what he told himself, even though there was nobody nearby to witness it. This whole relationship was nothing but a PR stunt; Victoria’s Secret angel and Bastard München’s ace. Except neither of you tolerated the other. Michael was under the impression that you were a complete bitch riding on daddy’s money and you probably saw him in a similar way. Not that he did anything to change that.

But now, riding home with you, occasionally glancing to his right and seeing the carefully neutral face you had forced on, he was seeing you in a new light.

It was only when you reached your shared penthouse where both of you had your own separate bedroom that he broke the silence. “I have to admit i was not expecting such kindness from you,” he muttered, looking away from you. His voice was gruff, face carved in disdain. “Why didn’t you tell the kid off?”