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29

EMBER

It took me a moment to catch my breath. The air is charged with electricity and currents flow all around my fingers, weaving and spinning like small bolts of lightning. I stare at Michael. Michael stares at me.

"Sorry I scared you," he speaks.

"You already said that."

He nods and walks around the couch until I have to back up into the wall because he's so close.

My heart is racing a mile a minute, and not in a good way. Andreas' hand is still on my skin. I feel it. It's a dark shadow. The longest shower in my life couldn't get rid of that stain.

Michael frowns and steps back, offering the baking tray between us.

"It's not even mine," I say. "I just found it under the oven." He doesn't drop it, so I take it and walk to the kitchen. I set it on the stove and see the note I wrote stuck to the clean surface. I turn around. "Did you wash this?" He nods. "Why?"

"It was dirty...?" He shakes his head, a small grin playing on his lips. "Yes. I washed it."

I nod, resisting the urge to punch myself in the head. The one question I want to ask is just about ready to fly from my mouth, but I hold it in, at least for now.

Michael clears his throat. "Cameron told me this was the dorm room the three of you had. I wasn't trying to intrude, just wanted to return that to you."

"So you know about them, then," I muse, eyeing Vanessa's room.

Michael smirks. "Cameron wouldn't shut up about it."

"Yeah, remind me to buy better headphones."

Michael bursts into in a deep, rich laugh. "Oh, wow. Yeah, I think the poor guy is in love."

"After a few weeks?" I counter.

Michael shrugs. "When you know, you know."

"No way," I say. "That's not true." I walk around to the couch and fix the blanket over the back, smoothing the wrinkles.

"Have you ever been in love?" Michael asks behind me. I freeze, hands in the blanket, then clear my throat.

"Yes."

"Sucks, doesn't it?" There's a smile in Michael's voice so I turn round. Sure enough, resting on his lips, pulling at the scar, is a soft ghost of a smile.

"You're weird," I blurt out.

He quirks a brow. "Really? You want to go there? Last time we talked you said you regularly get blood in your hair. I'm not weird, you're weird."

I choke over a laugh, making my face serious. "You just showed up in my dorm in formal wear with a baking sheet." I run my eyes down Michael's impressive frame and the black and white clothes donning it.

"I had a professional rehearsal today," he explains. "Why are you wearing a hood inside?"

My hands fly up to Grey's blue hood which is still over my hair. I push it off, smoothing the static over my head as best I can. Then I fall onto the couch, facing Michael across the room. He's leaning against the wall near the door, arms casually crossed over his chest, and feet crossed at the ankles. He looks the opposite of how I feel.

"Why are you here?" I ask, scratching my head.

Michael points to the couch cushion beside me. "May I?" he asks. I blink, then move over until I've created the maximum amount of space between us. He strides over and sits right beside me, but turns so he's facing me. I turn too, slowly, like I don't know how to operate my body anymore.

"Why are you here?" I repeat, clearing my throat. I fold my hands in my lap. I unfold them. I scratch my head again. Michael watches me with clear amusement dancing in his dark eyes. I huff, cracking my neck. "Are you not going to answer my—"

"To return your tray," he explains, pointing back to the kitchen. "Mr. Li gave me the whole story. You carried his podium up three flights of stairs?"

I straighten up. "Yeah, so?"

Michael leans back, assessing me. "I think you could climb. I might have underestimated your upper body strength durning that lesson. You're just uncoordinated."

"Oh thank you," I scoff, rolling my eyes. "But back to my question, why—"

"I just told you," Michael insists, brows together. "The tray."

"Yeah, but you're still here," I point out, "and the returned item is...returned." I clear my throat, pointing to the kitchen. "Right over there. Returned. It's returned."

Michael fingers the tie hanging loosely around his neck. My eyes are drawn to his hands, tanned, strong, and smooth, and then his chest and a slight bit of black ink showing under his white shirt.

"Skolebrød," he says eventually. I figure that's how it's actually pronounced. It sounds foreign from his lips. "Cameron informed me that you paid him a visit last Friday."

I look down to the couch, mumbling, "Cameron seems to tell you a lot of things," while shaking my head, annoyed.

"Did you bake skolebrød because he told you I was born in Norway?" asks Michael.

"Yes," I say, squinting at the clock just past Michael's head. "I maybe felt a little bit bad about the night you forced me to the hospital and I yelled at you instead of saying thank you. Maybe."

"So the skolebrød was a thank you?" he asks.

I keep my eyes on the clock, restraining myself. "Oui," I say, then close my eyes tightly. Wow, I just did the French thing again.

Michael taps my knee with his hand and I flinch. "HANDSY," I say loudly. He jerks back, eyes wide.

"Uh...Sorry..." he trails off, glancing behind him. "You weren't looking at me...What's so interesting about that clock?"

I wince, scratching my scalp. And again.

"Do you have lice?" asks Michael, tone more serious.

"No!" I jump up from the couch and start pacing. "Listen I don't know why you're still here but you are making me very nervous and I don't know why so I'd be overjoyed if you stated your business here before I have a quarter-life crisis heart attack from anxiety." I stop, exhaling. Then I turn to Michael and nod a few times, offering him the chance to speak.

He purses his lips, containing a smile, and rests his head in his hand, propped up on the couch. He looks too good to be sitting on our rag-tag couch, and much too comfortable.

I blink at him. "I'm getting tired of asking you the same question over and over again, Blondie."

He squints at me, then looks to our kitchen. He gets up, walks past me, and starts inspecting our kitchen cabinets and stove top. I just watch him with wide eyes. What is wrong with this man?!

After a few seconds, he slaps his hands together like he's getting rid of dust—rude—then turns to me, hands in his slacks pockets.

"I have an offer for you," he says.

I shake my head. "Declined."

He ignores me. "I was late to group last week—I didn't get a chance to try the skolebrød. By the time I got there, everyone had pretty much filled their faces."

I frown, genuinely disappointed. Now I can't ask him my burning question: did you like it?

"And," Michael adds, "the lollipops were gone."

I cross my arms and lift my chin. "They're a shit dessert item. Can't change my mind."

Michael's eyes dance. "Where are they, Ember?"

"Under the sink."

Oh my God I cannot believe I

"Perfect!" exclaims Michael, reaching for the cabinet under the sink. He pulls out a glass bowl of multicoloured lollipops. He sets them on the counter and picks up a red one, unwrapping it and popping it on his tongue.

"Fine!" I huff. "Take them. I don't care. I bake better sweets than suckers."

Michael nods, pushing the sucker to his cheek. "I believe you, which is where my offer comes in. I live in an apartment downtown. It has a restaurant downstairs which is closed right now due to dining room renovations."

"I'm not looking for a job," I tell him. "Declined."

Michael smirks, shaking his head. "Just give me chance, would you? I know the owner. I use to cook with him a few nights a week in the summer. The kitchen is free right now. You could bake there. Whenever, whatever. I'd just need to get you a key from—"

"Why are you saying all this?" I break in, holding my abdomen. "I don't understand."

My heart stutters at the kindness. Didn't I just tell Peter how hate-able I was? It wasn't a lie. I'm rude. I'm unkind. I'm at fault. Michael saw all of that! He saw it all that night at the hospital and said goodbye. He knew I wasn't worth the effort, so why did he come back?

Michael hasn't answered my question. I'm scared he will. I'm scared he won't. I ask again, "Why?"

Michael kicks off the counter, sucker still inside his cheek, and stops about a metre away from me, giving me space. He takes out the sucker and twirls it between his fingers, studying it.

"I wasn't planning to talk to you again," he tells me. "I already told you that. I find that I get sucked right back into that dark headspace when I see the look in your eyes."

"Oh," I say, nodding as my heart tries to fall through the floor. "That makes perfect sense, Blondie. I depress you. I'm not going to hold that against you, okay? You can go now. It's fine."

"Ember, that's not—"

"It's seriously okay," I insist. "Really."

"You make me laugh," says Michael, smiling at me.

"What?" I splutter.

"You do," he repeats.

"Cameron makes you laugh," I counter, clutching my stomach tightly.

"Cameron's missing a few screws," jokes Michael, and I can't disagree with him. "You're smart and strong, and if everyone is telling the truth, you're also a great baker." He stares at me for a moment before adding, "Who wouldn't want a friend like that?"

I shake my head, refusing to believe him. I actually let out a harsh laugh, convincing myself. "This is pity!" I explain. "It's so obvious, Blondie! I'm not an injured puppy in a cardboard box at the side of the road while it's raining!"

Michael winces, running a hand through his shaggy hair. "That was a sad image. Thanks for that."

I roll my eyes and point to the door. "Just go now, okay?"

Michael lifts his chin, a rebellious glint in his eye. He nods once, looking at me, then turns and heads for the door. Just before he grabs the handle, he looks back at me.

"There's an advanced pastry section of the kitchen," he informs me. "Just let me know if you change your mind."

I exhale a breath. "I think I'm good."

Michael points to the small, shitty kitchenette once more. "I brought your note back," he says, then opens the door and leaves, closing it gently behind him.

Once he's gone, I think I might cry and I don't know why.

Hugging my torso to the point of pain, I walk over to the baking tray, pick it up and slam it down on the counter. The clap! echoes in the suite like a gunshot. I lean over the pan, trying to keep my breathing controlled.

I just want to hate him so badly.

Something flutters to the ground. The note. I reach for it, my head spinning, and bring it back up to the counter. It's trampled, which seems more than fitting, but there's something written on the back that wasn't there before. A name, a phone number and an address.

I close my eyes, sighing as the anger bleeds from my body just as quick as it came.

Michael's name, Michael's number, and Michael's address. His last name is Lund.





A/N

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Little longer one this time! Hope you're enjoying the story 😊

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