We. The word settled in my chest like warmth, like something I hadn't realized I'd been missing until it was offered.
“I like having you here.”
The words came out before I could stop them. Honest in a way I usually avoided, because honesty led to vulnerability and vulnerability led to pain.
But Michael just smiled, warm and understanding. “Good. Then stop questioning it and let me reorganize your filing system. I promise it won't hurt.”
“The filing system or the reorganizing?”
“Both. Probably.”
We walked back toward the office together, close enough that our shoulders nearly brushed. The mill hummed around us, machinery and voices and the familiar rhythm of work getting done. And for a moment, just a moment, everything felt simple.
Like maybe this was what I'd been missing. Not just help with the business. Not just someone to handle the numbers.
Someone to stand beside.
We spentanother hour in the office going over his proposed system. Michael explained things with patience I didn't deserve, drew diagrams when words failed, made me repeat key concepts back to him until he was satisfied I actually understood.
“Okay,” he said finally, setting down his pen. “I think that's enough torture for one day.”
“It's not torture.”
“You've been staring at that same page for ten minutes.”
“I'm processing.”
“You're lost.” But he said it gently, with affection instead of judgment. “It's okay. We'll go over it again tomorrow. And the day after that. Eventually some of it will stick.”
“You have a lot of faith in my learning abilities.”
“I have faith in repetition.” He stretched, shoulders popping, and I tried not to notice the way his shirt pulled across his chest. “Besides, you're not as hopeless as you pretend. I've seen you memorize patrol schedules and pack dynamics without breaking a sweat. Numbers are just another language.”
“A language I don't speak.”
“Yet.” He stood, started gathering his things. “That's what the 'yet' is for. Growth. Potential. All that inspirational nonsense.”
I stood too, moved around the desk to lean against its edge. Closer to him than strictly necessary. “Michael.”
He paused, looked up at me. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. For this. For all of it.” I gestured vaguely at the organized files, the notebooks, the evidence of his care. “I know you didn't have to?—”
“I wanted to.” His voice was soft. “You gave me something to do when I needed it most. Let me return the favor.”
We stood there for a moment, I could smell him, coffee and clean laundry and something warm underneath. Could see the pulse jumping in his throat.
I wanted to close the distance. Wanted to find out if his mouth was as soft as it looked, if he'd lean into me or pull away, if this thing building between us was as real as it felt.
The office door opened.
Rafe stood in the doorway, expression pleasant and unsurprised, like he'd expected to find us exactly like this. Close enough to touch. Charged with something neither of us was acknowledging.
“Sorry to interrupt.” His voice was smooth, easy. “Luke said you'd be here. I had some questions about the patrol rotation.”
Michael stepped back immediately, putting distance between us that felt deliberate and painful. “I should get going anyway. Those projections won't finish themselves.”
He gathered his papers, his notebooks, all the evidence of the morning we'd shared. Moved past Rafe with a nod that was polite but nothing more, and disappeared into the main mill.
