"Hey," I breathed out, craning my neck to meet the soft green eyes I knew I would see.
"Hey," Michael said, his tone matching mine. I noticed vaguely how I thought he looked tired last time I saw him. That was nothing compared to how he looked now. He must not have gotten any sleep last night.
I opened my mouth to say something, but realizing I had nothing to actually say, I closed it again, glancing down at Michael's arm, which was still around my waist. Michael's eyes fell to my waist, a slight pink tint creeping across his cheeks.
"Sorry," he muttered, letting his arm fall to the side.
"It's fine," I shrugged, ignoring how my waist felt much colder without his touch, even though his arm was there for no more than a minute.
Michael nodded and stepped back, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck as he glanced around us. "So," he said awkwardly. "What's up?"
"Garbage duty," I gave him a weak smile and kicked the black bag since it was too heavy to lift.
"Here, I can take that." Before I could protest, Michael took the bag from my hands and turned down the staircase.
"Wait, Michael, really, it's fine. I can take it..." I trailed off as he kept walking down. I glanced back up the staircase at my apartment door and then at Michael, who turned onto the next flight of stairs. Biting my lip, I decided to follow him.
Michael didn't take the garbage to the garbage chute, but instead went all the way down to the dumpster in the alley next to our building. Not that I minded. Even though we weren't making conversation, at least I was with him, which was more than I could say for the past two weeks.
"I could have done it myself," I piped up as Michael swung the bag up and into the dumpster.
Michael turned to look at me, dusting his hands on his pants. He gave me a small, half-smile. "I know you can, Lanie."
My breath hitched at the mention of my other name. It felt like it'd been ages since he called me that. Michael's eyes held mine, watching to gauge my reaction. I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked down at my feet.
I heard Michael sigh softly and step closer until he was right in front of me. He placed his hand under my chin and tilted it up, his thumb brushing over my cheek with such delicacy, it felt as if he was almost scared to touch me now.
"I worry about you, Alana," Michael whispered, his voice nearly inaudible.
"What?" My tone matched his. "Why?"
"Who's gonna take care of you?" he murmured, more to himself than me. "Who'll make sure you're okay? I need you to be okay."
Suddenly, his hand felt hot against my face and I felt my chest tighten, frustration blooming inside. I didn't want to hear this. It was probably stupid, but I felt my temper flare. I didn't care what he needed. He needed me to be okay? He was the one who was moving away. It was a little too late to try and start worrying about who would take care of me.
I jerked my head away, out of his grasp. "I can take care of myself, Michael."
Michael's eyes widened and I immediately wished I hadn't said anything. I hadn't meant for it to come out harshly at all, but it was too late, the damage had been done. He stepped back, shoving one hand in his pocket and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. His eyes wouldn't meet mine.
"Right, no, I knew that," he stumbled over his words. "Of course you can, I didn't mean it like that. I know you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself."
