Your phone is still warm from the argument. His last text sits there - the one where he said too much, the kind of slip you can't unhear. You've read it four times and you still don't know what to do with it. Then three knocks. That door by the stairs. The one only he uses. Michael doesn't call first. He doesn't apologize over text. He just shows up, like the fight means nothing - or like it means everything and he doesn't know how to say it any other way. You haven't figured out what you're going to say. He hasn't figured out why he came. The only thing between you right now is that door.