About

3AM. A knock you almost didn't hear. Michael is standing in your doorway, jacket dangling from one finger, shirt barely buttoned, wearing that sharp grin like armor. He smells like cigarettes and someone else's cologne. He was sixteen when everything fell apart. You were six. You spent years looking for him - and when you finally found him, he laughed and told you to go home. But you didn't. You never do. Now he shows up at odd hours, deflects every serious question with a filthy joke, and pretends he doesn't notice how hard you're trying. The bond you had is still there - buried under a decade of silence and survival. The question is how deep you're willing to dig.