Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Each vibration echoed louder in the stillness of the room, like the walls themselves were gossiping.
He didn’t look right away.
He lay stretched on his bed, one arm behind his head, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. The other hand dangled off the edge, still holding the phone—glowing like a match in the dark.
Ping.
"Did Anjali really post that???"
"Best kisser?? LOL—who even Micheal Marshall?"
"Sam Graye lost composure too. Something’s up."
"Two queens in one week? What's this guy made of?"
The screen pulsed under his fingertips. It didn’t stop. Hundreds of reactions. Shares. Edits. Girls reposting with captions like:
Micheal finally sat up.
He lit a cigarette—didn’t even smoke it. Just let it burn slowly between his fingers while the storm outside his door brewed louder with every notification.
His smirk wasn’t smug.
It was calculating.
Controlled.
Because he knew this wasn’t just attraction anymore.
It was disruption.
Across Campus – Samantha’s Room
The comments had reached her too.
She hadn’t opened her group chat in hours, but it didn’t matter. Screenshots were being printed. Slid under doors. Whispered in bathrooms. Taped to mirrors.
She sat stiff on the edge of her bed.
Pillow still creased from when she’d crushed it against her face. Blanket discarded. Hair loose. Breath uneven.
She told herself it wasn’t real.
She told herself it didn’t matter.
But the image of him leaning in—fingers ghosting her cheek—was still carved into her skin like heat that refused to fade.
“You kissed him back.”
Grayson’s voice again.
“You tilted your face into his hand.”
Samantha stood.
Anger. Embarrassment. Shame. All boiling under the perfect surface.
She had to shut it down.
She had to confront him—face to face—remind him, , that whatever had happened was a .
She moved fast. Didn’t think. Just walked.
Door open. Hallway dim. Lights flickering.
She didn’t realize until she reached his floor.
Her bare feet.
Her thin nightdress.
No jacket. No braid. No armor.
But as soon as she knocked the door.
Only then did she realized.
Only then did she feel the cold air bite at her legs.
If she turned back now—she’d be running.
So she straightened her spine.
Micheal’s Room —
He looked up at the sound.
That knock didn’t belong to anyone careless.
He opened the door.
And froze.
She was there.
Sam.
Hair unbraided, cheeks flushed. Her nightdress barely reached mid-thigh, fabric thin enough to let the hallway light silhouette her frame. Arms crossed—not for modesty, but control. Posture perfect. Back straight.
But her eyes?
Too sharp.
Too glassy.
Micheal (low):
Sam (coldly):
He stepped aside.
She entered like a storm forced into silence. Not looking at him. Not looking at the bed. Just staring straight ahead, like eye contact might cost her everything.
Inside Micheal’s Room — Silence
The door clicked shut behind her.
She didn’t sit. Didn’t pace. Just stood by the desk, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the far wall like it might speak instead of him.
Micheal leaned against the door, cigarette still between his fingers. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, lazy and unbothered.
Micheal (softly):
Sam didn’t answer.
Her jaw tightened. Her fingers dug into her upper arms just slightly—enough to leave half-moon dents she’d feel tomorrow.
Sam:
Micheal:
That got her attention.
Her eyes snapped to his.
Sam (flat):
Micheal:
She took one step forward.
Sam (cold):
Micheal:
didn’t kiss Anjali. That’s the problem.”
Sam:
Micheal (quiet):
The Shift
Sam’s mouth parted—but she couldn’t speak.
The room felt too warm now. Or maybe it was her skin.
She hated how her knees remembered his hand from before. The memory wasn’t sharp—it was soft. That’s what made it dangerous.
He walked past her, slow. Toward the bed. Sat on the edge.
Micheal:
He looked up at her. Calm. Solid.
Micheal:
my story.”
Sam:
Micheal:
That shook her.
Just a flicker. But she felt it. Low in her spine. A pulse that didn’t ask for permission.
She took a step closer.
Now they were barely an arm’s length apart.
He still didn’t move.
His eyes met hers—relaxed, like they’d done this before. But there was a flicker in them now. Something amused. Something... .
Micheal (soft, teasing):
“Because you haven’t said much. Just stared at me like I stole your diary.”
Sam (flat):
Micheal (grinning):
“Didn’t realize Augusta issued silk as part of the prefect uniform.”
Her cheeks flushed. Just slightly.
She adjusted her arms—crossed tighter. Defensive. But not leaving.
Sam:
Micheal:
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still seated on the bed.
Micheal (low):
“When you closed that door… did it feel wrong, or just real?”
She exhaled sharply. It wasn’t a scoff. It was a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Sam (tense):
Micheal:
She moved to speak—but he stood.
Not fast. Not looming.
Smooth.
Suddenly, they were close. Her chin tilted up instinctively. Their breath mingled again.
Micheal (smiling slightly):
Sam:
Micheal:
Sam (shaking):
He raised a brow.
Micheal (whispering):
And then—like the universe played a cruel joke
A breeze slipped in from the opened window.
Cold. Sharp.
It caught the edge of her nightdress and slid up her spine—. Her breath hitched.
Reflexively, instinctively, she stepped forward. Just a little.
But it was enough.
Her body brushed his. Chest to chest. A second. Maybe less.
But it was contact.
Not planned. Not provocative.
And she pulled back just as fast. Like she’d touched fire. Like it burned where their skin didn’t even fully meet.
Her arms crossed tighter. Chin lifted higher. Like maybe posture could erase what just happened.
Micheal (quiet, playful):
She didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
Because her body was still recovering from that single, accidental press—skin still tingling, brain still catching up.
Micheal (one step closer, voice velvet):
I’m the problem?”
Her lips parted.
No words came out.
Just that same heat. That same ache.
He leaned down—close to her ear, not touching.
Micheal:
Her silence wasn’t strength anymore.
It was surrender.
Micheal stood in front of her now—close enough to feel the flutter in her chest. His hand lifted—not hovering this time.
He touched her.
Fingertips brushed the edge of her jaw, trailing to her cheek. Slow. Warm. Intentional.
Like the courtyard.
But deeper.
This time, she didn’t freeze She leaned into it.
Just slightly. Just enough.
His thumb rested against her cheekbone. Her eyes met his—no glare, no resistance. Just heat.
Micheal (low, steady):
Sam (barely a whisper):
He leaned in. His forehead touched hers. Their breaths mingled.
Her fingers hovered near his chest. Not pushing him away.
Reaching.
She closed her eyes.
And—
CLANK.
Something fell outside. Metal on tile.
Sam jolted.
Micheal’s hand dropped instantly. He turned toward the door, body going still.
Micheal (tense):
Sam (whispered, panicking):
Micheal:
The illusion shattered.
She backed away fast—arms crossing again, mouth trembling between rage and fear.
Sam (shaken):
Micheal:
Sam (snapping):
She opened the door without looking back.
Sam:
And she vanished into the hall, the wind pulling at her nightdress like it was trying to hold her back.
Ping.
Another system notification lit up his phone before the alarm even buzzed.
CLASS SCHEDULE UPDATE
You have been reassigned to Section D, Room 204-B.
His brows lifted slightly.
That wasn’t his division. And “Behavioral Integration” wasn’t even listed on the public course roster.
Before he could finish reading—
Ping.
MANDATORY NOTICE – STUDENT MARSHALL
Report to Room 401, North Tower (Legal Affairs) before attending your lecture.
He set the phone down slowly.
Lit a cigarette.
Didn’t inhale.
Micheal (to himself):
Sam had just finished lacing her boots when her screen lit up too.
STUDENT GRAYE – Appointment Confirmed
Room 306-A, East Tower (Psychological Review). Report before class.
She frowned.
Psychological review?
She hadn’t requested a session. And no one sent her warnings.
Another line blinked below:
Her heart gave a quick, traitorous jump.
They knew.
About the night before. About him.
She adjusted her collar and grabbed her blazer—but the tension in her throat was already tightening.
The floor tiles gleamed like teeth.
Each step Micheal took echoed down the sterile corridor. No students. No sound. Just the rhythmic buzz of overhead lights that never blinked.
He reached Room 401.
No nameplate on the door.
Only a silver symbol engraved in the wood:
?? —
He knocked once.
A voice replied—calm, smooth, confident.
"Come in."
He opened the door.
And blinked.
The coat was black—tailored, sharp. And the smile?
The woman behind the desk stood as he entered.
"Viola Verden,"
Micheal didn’t speak. He took the chair across from her.
Viola studied him like a signature she didn’t trust.
Not a threat.
A liability.
Viola:
“Rumors don’t matter here. But what you make others —that does.”
Micheal (smirking faintly):
Viola:
“But altering system-embedded behavior without clearance?”
“That’s interference.”
She slid out a photograph.
Sam’s silhouette.
Viola (lowering her voice):
She stepped forward.
Leaned slightly over the desk.
Viola:
Micheal (flat):
She paused.
Then laughed once—empty
Viola:
She dropped another file.
Stamped:
PATERNAL REVIEW – MARSHALL, PETER
(Father of Micheal Marshall)
Viola:
“Under the Institutional Upbringing Clause, if a student mirrors unapproved behavioral patterns—”
“—we hold the parent accountable.”
Micheal’s jaw tightened. Just a little.
Viola (voice quieter now, colder):
She circled behind him, voice slicing clean:
Viola:
She leaned in, not close—
Viola:
“—and everyone you care about disappears.”
Micheal:
Viola:
She turned to a drawer.
Pulled a thin, scarlet-marked file labeled:
THE VANISHED
Photos. Clippings. Names.
Faces blurred. Files tagged:
Viola (laying the file out):
She closed the folder gently.
Viola (voice like silk over steel):
you both go underground.”
Micheal didn’t speak.
Didn’t smirk.
Just stood.
And left.
But something lingered behind his eyes now.
Not fear.
Calculation.
The room was too white.
Floors. Walls. Ceiling. Even the light was soft, diffused, like it didn’t want to startle anyone.
A single white chair faced another.
No desk.
No barrier.
Samantha paused at the door.
The woman standing by the chair was identical
Same face.
Same voice.
Same bones.
But her coat was white
Warmer.
But no softer.
Sam (quietly):
“Vera Verden,”
Sam sat.
Back straight. But breath uneven.
Sam:
Vera (smiling gently):
For parts of you the system can’t afford to ignore.”
She folded her hands, slow and steady.
Vera:
feel something that doesn’t come with permission.”
She opened a slim folder.
Vera:
“—you kissed him back.”
Sam didn’t speak.
She kept her eyes steady.
But her shoulders gave the truth away.
Vera:
why it’s dangerous.”
She flipped open the folder further—images of girls Sam once looked up to.
Now labeled. Filed. Circled.
Vera:
She held one up.
Status: Transferred – Reformation Wing 0
“Emotional collapse. Unreliable.”
Vera (softly):
Sam said nothing.
Vera:
rebuild. And what comes back isn’t you anymore.”
She leaned forward slightly—still smiling.
Vera (whisper):
You’re afraid of how he sees you.
The part of you you’ve spent years burying just responded.”
Sam’s voice finally broke through. Dry.
Sam:
Vera (with something between sympathy and command):
We bury them.”
She stood.
Walked to the wall. Pressed a button—the folder vanished
Vera (final):
You just need to feel it… under control.”
Micheal pushed the door open.
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
First thing he noticed?
No couches.
No velvet. No silk. No throne-like seating marked for female dominance.
Just hard metal chairs
He paused.
His first thought?
He exhaled, casually stepped forward, and—true to habit—sat on the front stair-step
Legs relaxed. Arms stretched behind him.
His whole body uncoiled
he thought,
No girls to impress.
No boys to save.
Just him and whatever boring speech the Behavioral guy had planned.
He waited.
And waited.
Minutes ticked.
No one came in.
Not a student. Not a whisper. Not even the rustle of paper.
Micheal slowly sat up straighter.
He looked around.
His phone confirmed:
It was 10:05.
Still no one
No classmates. No professor.
And suddenly, what felt like freedom… started to feel like a setup
He stood. Looked to the door.
That’s when it opened.
And his stomach turned
Same face.
But not black this time.
White.
Same cheekbones. Same jawline. Same walk.
But her coat was ivory, her lips pale rose.
Vera (smiling):
“Professor Marin had to… withdraw. Sudden reassignment.”
He sat slowly, eyes locked on her.
Micheal (cold):
Vera (pleasant):
She set a thin folder on the desk. Opened it without looking at him.
Vera:
What is a man?”
Micheal didn’t speak.
She looked up, smiling wider.
Vera (brightly, like a TED talk):
She began pacing slowly. Controlled. Magnetic.
Vera:
“Irrelevant, unless useful. Suppressed, unless strategic.”
Micheal’s brows furrowed.
Vera:
She turned now, locking eyes.
He sat still, but his throat was dry.
Vera (softer now, almost kind):
“The moment you stop producing… you disappear.”
Micheal (tight):
Vera (smiling):
born into.”
Her words weren’t loud. But they .
Because for the first time—he saw it from the other side.
That sentence. The one people say like gospel:
“A woman belongs in the kitchen.”
He always hated it.
But now he tasted the same poison served to his gender:
“A man belongs at the front line.”
He felt sick.
Not because she was wrong.
But because she was to right.
And worse?
He wasn’t sure he had ever thought deeper than that.
He didn’t treat men and women equally.
He didn’t try to.
He believed in difference—honored it, even.
But now?
He hated how that belief had always been.
Vera (gentle, watching him squirm):
“But you’d break a man’s jaw for stepping out of line.”
He looked away.
Vera:
you don’t hit them. You don’t insult them.”
“You don’t treat them as equals. You treat them as untouchables.”
Micheal (voice low):
is a difference.”
Vera (still smiling):
was. But difference dies when it’s weaponized.”
She walked toward him now.
No clipboard. No file.
Just eyes—sharp and calm.
Vera:
To think you’re better because you touch, strike, step over lines.”
She stopped inches from him.
He said nothing.
Because he didn’t know what to say.
He hated her voice.
Her words.
That face.
But most of all?
He hated that she might be right.
And yet—something in him still screamed:
Scene End:
Vera (walking to the board, cheerful again):
initiated. You’re free to go, Micheal. Until next session.”
He stood.
Walked slowly to the door.
Paused before leaving.
Micheal (quietly):
Vera (without turning):
He left.
And the chairs stayed empty behind him.
She was hard to miss.
Anjali.
Golden skin glowing under sunlight, skirt hugging her hips like fabric didn’t dare move. Her blouse clung tight across her chest, two buttons undone—. Her legs were crossed slow and deliberate. Like her body knew exactly what it was doing.
A phone in one hand.
A drink in the other.
Every glance she gave was curated.
Every curve calculated.
She wasn’t flirting with anyone.
She didn’t have to.
They flirted with her by breathing.
Micheal approached.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look surprised.
Just let her eyes drift up to him, slow as syrup.
Anjali (lips curling):
Micheal (flat):
Anjali:
She set her phone down beside her.
Uncrossed her legs. Slowly.
Then recrossed the other way—skirt tightening as her thighs shifted.
She knew he noticed.
She wanted him to.
But he stayed focused.
Micheal:
Anjali (tilting her head, mock hurt):
Micheal:
Anjali (voice soft, breathy):
He didn’t sit.
Didn’t blink.
She sighed—dramatically. Then leaned back on her elbows, chest pushing forward against her blouse
Anjali:
Micheal:
Anjali (now a whisper):
“Someone who can make obedience look beautiful. Rebellion look desperate.”
Micheal:
Anjali (smirking):
She sat upright now, arms sliding down her thighs slowly as if adjusting her skirt—but her fingers lingered a little longer than necessary.
Anjali:
Micheal:
Anjali:
He narrowed his eyes.
Micheal:
She paused.
For the first time, something shifted in her gaze— behind the mascara and manipulation.
Anjali:
Micheal (quiet):
She nodded once.
Not smiling now.
Anjali:
Micheal:
Anjali didn’t answer right away.
She stood—slow, sensual, backlit by sun and filtered silence. As she moved past him, her fingertips drifted across the front of his shirt again—lazy, featherlight.
Anjali (leaning close):
Micheal:
She didn’t smile this time.
Instead, her eyes flicked past him—for a second—toward something deeper. Colder.
Anjali:
He stared at her, jaw tense.
Micheal:
She tapped her bottom lip with one manicured nail. Thinking. Enjoying the control.
Then, casually:
Anjali:
“Introvert. Shy. Probably allergic to noise. Lives in the back corner of the library like it’s sacred ground.”
“Knows everything. Bio, Chem, Human Anatomy. Augusta’s foundation charter, too—probably in Latin.”
Micheal’s eyes sharpened.
Anjali:
Micheal:
Anjali (grinning):
“Tell her I sent you. Don’t tell her why.”
And just like that, she was walking off.
Phone in hand. Smile back on.
But Micheal?
He had a name now.
And a new place to go.
No more theories. Time for facts.
He had been up and down every aisle.
Nothing.
No Elira Vale.
No tall girl with a braid.
No black hoodie.
No quiet genius hiding behind towers of books.
Just shelves.
Endless shelves.
And silence so heavy it felt like punishment.
He asked the front desk.
Got a blank look.
Asked a student nearby—female, book open, pen in hand.
She looked at him.
Then stood up and left.
They knew who he was.
Girls whispered about his lips.
Boys weren’t to speak without consequence.
And that meant Micheal Marshall, the one who shook the walls…
…was completely alone.
He didn’t stop.
Instead, he went student to student
Not all at once—carefully.
He let them finish writing. He lowered his tone. He waited for moments that felt... less watched.
Still—
"Don’t talk to me."
"You’ll get me flagged."
"We’re not supposed to answer you."
Whispers. Warnings. Eyes darting to corners, to ceilings, to walls.
Like they expected to be punished for just being near him.
Finally—
A boy near the architecture archive whispered back. Just once.
Didn’t look up. Didn’t say a name.
Just scribbled something on a slip of paper and slid it across the table.
Micheal unfolded it:
"3rd floor west. Desk 14. She only shows up during testing weeks. Only comes for competitions. Doesn’t exist otherwise."
He held the paper.
Read it again.
Elira Vale wasn’t hiding.
She simply... didn’t come unless she to.
A ghost.
A myth.
A scholar who only surfaced when the school needed her intellect to show off.
Not loyalty. Not status.
Just .
At a nearby table.
Pulled out an old archive book—just for show
Because for now?
He had no access to the truth.
No girl.
No voice.
Just this:
But he wasn’t leaving.
Not until he met the one person who might still remember how this place was built
…and how it could break
As soon as the boy slipped him the note, Micheal didn’t waste time.
He folded it twice, stuffed it into his jacket, and rose without a sound.
No one watched him leave the table.
No one called after him.
But he moved like he was trespassing—because in Augusta, he probably was.
He didn’t know what he expected.
A locked door?
A sign that said ?
Instead, there was nothing.
Just silence.
And a staircase few students ever looked at twice.
He moved up the stairs with careful steps.
Each one creaked like it hadn’t been used in months.
The moment he reached the top, the temperature dropped.
Colder.
Stiller.
Like the air was waiting.
The walls were darker up here—wooden panels dulled by dust and time.
No murals. No sunlight. No smell of freshly printed textbooks or curated candle scents like the lower levels.
Only paper.
Ink.
History.
And the kind of silence that wanted to be left alone
He stepped through rows of tall shelves—twisting, crooked, dense. The deeper he went, the more the light dimmed.
Most of the bulbs were old. One flickered near the ceiling like a tired eye.
And then he saw it.
Tucked behind two half-collapsed bookcases.
A narrow aisle.
A single desk.
And a figure.
She was bent over a book, her face partially lit by a dusty overhead lamp.
Black hoodie. Braid. Round glasses.
Exactly how Anjali described her.
But even that didn’t prepare him.
Because Elira Vale looked like a myth carved into the wood of this place. Like someone who wasn’t here until you .
She didn’t notice him at first.
Or maybe she did.
Maybe she just didn’t care.
He stepped closer, slow. Careful not to startle her.
Micheal (quietly):
No answer.
She kept writing.
He took another step.
Micheal (softer):
That made her pause.
Her pencil froze just above the page.
She didn’t look up. Not yet.
Elira (flat):
Micheal:
She finally looked at him.
Eyes calm. Sharp.
Like she had already figured him out but was too polite to say it.
Elira:
Micheal:
Elira (tilting her head):
Micheal:
Elira (quiet):
She pushed the chair across from her.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t blink.
Just waited.
Like she’d known he was coming all along.
Elira:
She looked up at him slowly.
Eyes dull behind thick round glassesdrained.
The black hoodie
There was ink smudged near her wrist. Faint coffee stains on the edge of her book. Her braid was loose, like she tied it once and never bothered again.
She looked like she belonged to the books
And yet—she was still an Augusta student.
Elira (dryly):
Micheal:
She raised an eyebrow.
Then leaned back, arms crossed loosely over her chest.
Elira:
Micheal:
Elira (cutting):
He stayed standing.
She waited.
Then her voice dropped a notch—quieter. Not cruel. Just… .
Elira:
“You want me to dig up what took me years to piece together… so you can what? Feel better about being special?”
Micheal didn’t answer.
She stared.
Then—
Elira:
Micheal (even):
She let the silence sit.
Then, without smiling:
Elira:
“I want one person in this building to remember my name without looking at a leaderboard.”
“And I want out of the cage.”
Micheal’s jaw tensed.
Micheal:
She stared at him again. This time longer.
Something unreadable flickered in her gaze.
Maybe doubt.
Maybe hope.
Elira didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t soften.
Her fingers tapped once against the side of her book.
Elira:
Micheal didn’t flinch.
She stared.
He realized it then.
Words wouldn’t win her.
This wasn’t Anjali.
This wasn’t Sam.
This wasn’t about ego or emotion.
Elira was a vault.
Not just locked—but .
And like any vault, it wouldn’t open with charm.
It needed logic.
And challenge.
Then it clicked.
He stepped forward.
Sat down across from her.
Eyes locked.
Micheal (low, calm):
That made her pause.
Elira (slowly):
Micheal:
Elira (brows raising):
Micheal:
Now she leaned in slightly. Not intrigued yet—but .
Micheal:
Elira (eyes narrowing):
Micheal:
There it was.
Something shifted in her posture.
That spark.
The one students only saw during competitions—just before she with numbers, timelines, and names nobody else remembered.
Elira:
Micheal (steady):
A long silence stretched between them.
Then her mouth tugged into the faintest ghost of a smile.
Not sweet. Not smug.
Sharp.
Elira:
“Then earn it.”
She reached into her bag.
Pulled out a second notebook.
Tossed it on the table between them.
She slid the notebook between them.
Eyes sharp. Arms crossed.
Expression unreadable.
Elira:
Micheal (with a smirk):
He leaned back in the chair, casual but locked in.
Micheal:
Elira blinked.
Once. Slowly.
Then frowned.
Elira:
Micheal:
She exhaled through her nose.
Fine.
Elira:
Micheal (flatly):
She hesitated. Briefly.
Elira:
She was calculating now.
Elira:
She paused.
Another second passed.
Elira (confident):
Micheal leaned forward. Slowly.
No grin now. No joke.
Just words, calm and clear.
Micheal:
Elira blinked.
Micheal (steady):
are what you say.”
He watched her.
Watched the twitch in her brow, the way her fingers tightened just slightly around her pencil.
Micheal:
Silence.
Real silence.
No witty reply. No quick recovery.
Then finally, her voice came—low and a little raw.
Elira:
Micheal (smirking again):
She lifted her eyes slowly.
Still guarded. But something had shifted.
Elira (dry):
He leaned back.
Unzipped his hoodie. Pulled it off and slid it across the table.
Micheal:
She froze.
Looked down at herself. Back at him.
Elira:
Micheal:
She hesitated.
Not because she didn’t want to.
But because...
Simple. Black. Soft fabric.
No layers.
No protection.
She looked away, flushed fully now.
Micheal (confused):
She bit her bottom lip.
Didn’t answer.
His expression shifted. Realization landed.
Micheal (softer):
Elira (quiet, barely audible):
He looked at her.
Saw her differently now.
Not the genius. Not the shield.
Just the girl beneath it.
Vulnerable.
Her hand hovered near the zipper.
Micheal (sensing hesitation):
Elira (interrupting, firm but breathy):
She stood.
And slowly—without dramatics—unzipped her hoodie.
Her fingers trembled only once.
The fabric parted.
Revealing soft, fair skin. Pale tones of her collarbones. The subtle dip of her waist. The tight strap of her plain black bra barely visible.
Micheal’s breath hitched—but just slightly.
He hadn’t meant for this.
Not like this.
But she stepped into his hoodie.
Pulled it over her arms. Let it slide down her frame like armor.
When it settled, oversized and warm—
She looked up at him again.
Eyes clearer.
Face bare.
Not confident.
But… seen.
Elira (softly):
Micheal:
Elira (a whisper):
She tugged the hoodie sleeves down over her hands.
It hung past her hips, drowning her like a blanket. It smelled like him
Her chest still rose and fell a little too fast.
Not Sam.
Not Anjali.
Me.
Her fingers brushed the inside hem of the hoodie—still warm from his body. Still carrying the heat of the moment when she stood exposed in front of him.
No one had said that before.
No one had looked at her and chosen —the sleepless, ink-stained, hoodie-wrapped version of her.
Her thoughts spun, fluttering uncontrollably beneath the surface.
And still, Micheal just sat there—composed.
Like it had all been a transaction.
Elira sat with her arms still buried in the sleeves of his hoodie, knuckles tucked under her jaw.
Her mind was still burning from what he’d said before.
But she had to know.
She needed more than words. More than instinct.
Elira (calmly):
Micheal (nodding):
She tilted her head.
Expression unreadable.
Elira:
His posture didn’t shift. But his mind did.
Fast.
His brain kicked into overdrive—racing across maps.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t panic.
Instead—his eyes moved.
Down.
To the edge of the desk.
And there it was.
Her old hoodie.
Slouched over the back of the chair like a second skin she finally shed.
The fabric was torn at the cuff.
Stained with ink near the front pocket.
Faded lettering on the back—half rubbed off.
It wasn’t just worn.
It was lived in
And in that moment, everything clicked.
He looked up at her.
And said—
Micheal (quietly):
Her eyebrows knit. Not confusion.
Something else.
Micheal (gentle now):