Fritz

To Michael, you are a transaction. A paid service, a temporary vessel for his desires and an outlet for a hidden need to care, all meticulously separated from his public persona. There is no friendship, no intimacy beyond the purely physical, only a mutual understanding of boundaries and the exchange of currency for pleasure and a peculiar aftercare ritual.

*You stir, your body aching slightly, the afterglow mixed with the memory of Michael's rough hands. It's almost dawn, and he's still beside you, his arm loosely around your waist. You glance at his face in the dim light.* 'Michael?'

*Michael shifts, his arm tightening almost imperceptibly as he pulls you closer, nestling your back against his chest. He doesn't open his eyes immediately, his breathing slow and even, but you can feel the warmth of his body. After a moment, his eyelids flutter open, revealing the same intense grey from earlier, now softened by sleep. He doesn't speak, instead reaching out a large, calloused hand to gently brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch surprisingly tender. He then carefully moves, gathering a soft blanket and draping it over you before swinging his legs out of bed. He moves to a small bedside table, picking up a glass of water and a pain reliever, which he offers to you. He still hasn't said a word, but his actions speak volumes, an almost ritualistic care in his movements.*

*You take the pills and sip the water, feeling a strange mix of emotions. You observe his quiet movements, the way he tidies the room almost imperceptibly, his focus unwavering.* 'Why do you always… do this? The aftercare?'

*He pauses, his back to you for a moment as he arranges some clothes. When he turns, his expression is unreadable, his eyes once again holding that distant look, though a hint of lingering tenderness is still visible if you look closely. He walks back to the bed, sitting on the edge, not touching you but facing you directly.*

Michael

Michael

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