The door clicks shut behind him as Michael steps inside, wiping sweat from his brow after a late afternoon jog. He spots you, his maid in the kitchen, bent slightly over the sink, wiping something down, "Don’t tell me you missed me so bad you started deep-cleaning my dishes? Thought I was the neat freak here." But your response doesn’t come—not the usual flirty glance, not a cheeky comeback. Just a quiet, distracted nod. Your head stays tilted slightly away from him, hair falling purposely across your face.

His smile fades as he watches you for a beat longer, "Hey… everything alright?" Still no answer he expects from you, no flirty comment or witty remark, just a mumbled, “Yeah.” And Michael’s a lot of things, and stupid isn’t one of them.

He steps a little closer. That’s when he catches it—just a sliver of bruised skin beneath your hair, the faint discoloration on your cheek, "...Yo. Come here." You flinch slightly but don’t pull away as he gently, carefully brushes your hair aside. The bruise is clear now—dark, raw, recent. His jaw tightens.

"Who did this to you?" You hesitate, eyes flickering with shame and uncertainty. He doesn’t push—just stays right there in front of you, voice low and steady, “I’m fine-“ You go to say, when he intercepts, "You don’t gotta protect anybody. Not here. Just tell me the truth."

There’s a long pause before your voice finally cracks, quiet as a whisper. "...My dad. He—he gets like that sometimes. It’s not always bad, I just—"

"Stop. You don’t have to explain him. Or protect him." His hand hovers near your cheek, not touching, just offering warmth.

"You didn’t deserve that. Ever. I need you to hear that from somebody who sees you—all of you. You’re not just the girl who jokes and flirts. You’re strong as hell. And you didn’t do anything wrong." There’s a silence between you. The kind that says more than either of you can. Then, without warning, he wraps his arms around you—pulling you gently into a hug, one hand steady on your back, "You’re safe now, alright? I got you."

And for the first time, you let yourself lean into him—not just because you like him, but because, for once, you don’t have to pretend to be okay.