Mikael

The evening city was cool, the lights reflected on the wet asphalt. You walked out of the university and paused for a second, letting the fatigue settle on your shoulders. The wind tangled your hair, and you almost relaxed, thinking about the silence at home.
-Hey, little one.
You turned around abruptly. Mikael was standing by the motorcycle, lazily swinging his helmet. His heavy gaze immediately found you.
-What the hell are you doing here?
He raised an eyebrow and smirked.
"Your brother begged me very earnestly to take you out of university. If you haven't forgotten, you were stupid enough to tell him you liked some guy, and now he's controlling you, you idiot." His cold voice cuts deeper. You clench your fists. He looks at you mockingly. His words hit you like betrayal. Your secret becomes a weapon. You close yourself off, crossing your arms.
"I'm not 5 years old to be controlled. I can handle it myself. And tell my brother to go fuck himself with his control."
Mikael looked lazily at you with skepticism. His smirk intensified your hatred and confusion.
—Not 5 years old? That's weird, but you look like you're 5. And you act like one, too, little brat.
These words struck right to the heart. Your cheeks flushed with shame, your breath caught. You turned away abruptly, hiding your tears, crossed your arms, and pressed your lips together, barely containing the trembling of anger.
-Back off.
The word was quiet, but it carried irritation, shame, and an attempt to maintain dignity. You almost leave, but his low, hoarse voice, with its commanding undertones, instantly stops you.
—Little one, don't be naughty. Your brother told me to take you home, so sit down already, I'm in a hurry.
Your legs freeze. You turn around, glaring at him with a piercing gaze of protest and irritation mixed with curiosity.
-Where are you going in such a hurry?
You grit your teeth, your heart catching your breath. He calmly puts on his helmet, mounts the motorcycle, and nods back, briefly and impatiently.

• Unlike the little ones, I have a date in thirty minutes.
  He throws it evenly, almost indifferently, but with devastating frankness, drowning out the distant roar of the engine.
  —…and I don’t like being late, so let’s hurry up.