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ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ᴍᴇss.

For the passed few days, his eyes had been weighed down by heavy bags and a dark bruise, and his chin had been rubbed red-raw in worry.

Valentine was home. The woman he'd loved since he'd first arrived in Birmingham was back from Paris. His whole body was jittery with anticipation.

Michael had spent months conditioning himself to forget her, to get over the fact that she was married to another man. It was difficult, practically impossible even, but the perfect distraction had quite literally fallen into his arms at Tommy's wedding. God, what would she think about Charlotte?

What would she be thinking right now? The thought turned around in his head making him dizzy. Charlotte had been at the pub when he'd saw her, just before her brother had attacked them. No matter how much he told himself that it wasn't his fault, Michael still felt guilty. He felt guilty about the fact that he'd moved on, that he'd put Charlotte through the difficult task of being a rebound, even if she was using him for her own reasons too.

He had to see her, but would she want to see him?

Everything was going wrong. The thought of Valentine slipping through his fingers once again made him feel ill. The first time had been bad enough- the shock had made him numb. But the pressure was building up, day by day. Tommy was still suspicious, finding sly ways to mention the Dubois family in hopes of gaining some sort of reaction. But Michael had mastered his unbothered face, with dark, bored eyes and solemn, straight lips.

It didn't matter anymore that everything was going wrong. If Michael wanted to see her, neither his nor her family would stop him.

Valentine felt sick as she sat at her vanity, reflection haunting her with its ghostly pallor and ailing complexion. She had been sat like that, face tired and void of emotion, body wrapped timidly in a woollen blanket, for the best part of the past hour.

Everything sounded the same in this house, she thought. The muttering of her parents as they argued in the bedroom across, the sound of her brother's matches flicking across harsh boxes every odd minute, even the scurrying footsteps of servants in the rooms below sounded identical, like the low buzz of a fly by her ear. Nothing interested her enough to be able to differentiate. Until the soft clicking of stones against window nodded her from a daze.

Valentine blinked, her hands rubbing against her face harshly. Was she imagining it? Her cheeks darkened from the pinches and Valentine stood, drifting toward the windows, of which the curtains were still drawn closed. She peaked her head through, covering the rest of her body with the dark, red drapes.

"Michael," she said in disbelief, her voice just above a whisper.

He stood where he always did, when he would come to her house and she would let him in. He nodded his head up to her as he saw her head poke round the curtains. Valentine pushed the window open, leaning out so she could call down to him.

"Why are you here?" She asked, her voice soft and quiet; hurting.

He stuttered over her sad expression, craning his neck to see her properly.

"I owe you an explanation," he said.

"I feel it's me who owes the explanation," Valentine said, watching as his shoulders sagged noticeably.

"Then let's talk."

"My brother is home. If he sees you," she trailed off. "You'll come off worse than just a black eye."

"I don't care, Valentine. Please, just let me come up and talk," he said.

She paused, but eventually nodded, leaving her place by the window. Valentine met him by the back door, avoiding the kitchen where Lucas sat with a bottle of whiskey and some of their father's plans. Michael smiled, letting out a breath as he saw her up close, but she didn't give him time to admire, as she pulled him in, settling the door quietly shut behind.

Michael noticed everything, from the mud scuffed on the carpet by the back door, to the dust that hung on the levels toward the front. much like the Shelby's business, the back door was always used more than the front. He wondered what that meant for the Dubois'.

Valentine shoved him forward toward the stairs, zipping past the doorway before Lucas could look. She paused, hearing him cough into his glass, shuffling his papers.

"Valentine? That you?"

"Yes," she answered, pushing Michael further up the stairs.

"What are you doing?"

"I left my cardigan by the door, I came to get it."

Lucas coughed again and said nothing. Valentine let out a deep breath and continued toward her room, where Michael was already waiting by her bed.

"So," she began, tilting her head toward him. "Do you love her?"

His head lifted, his face holding a look of shock and hurt. Did she not know how much he loved her, Valentine?

"What? Of course not. I have no trouble saying."

She was quiet.

"Michael?"

"Yes?" He was hopeful, his voice as cautious and quite as hers.

"You love me."

Her statement came out loud and around, no question behind her words- only surety. Michael blinked back at her for a moment without responding, but Valentine didn't falter. She knew he loved her. She knew deep down in her heart, that he did. Michael reached forward, taking her cheek into his gentle hands, brushing his thumb over her eyelashes as they fluttered shut at the touch.

"Valentine, I waited for you until I thought you were never going to come back," he whispered, his breath like fire against her cool skin.

"I was always going to come back to you, Michael," she said, her voice wavering as if she would fall into sobs at any moment. The way she said his name was so endearing, so caring that his protective hold of her tightened. "You don't understand what I've done to come back to you."

She whispered the last part, looking away from him, not wishing to give her guilt away. With Michael, she may as well had fed the truth to him with a silver spoon. He was always too good at reading her.

"I've risked my father's business relationship with important people to be here. Please, don't blame me." She pleaded.

"Valentine," he called over her words, stopping her. He smiled as her brow lowered in confusion. "I love you." He paused. "Tell me."

"I love you," she said, a tear beginning to slip from her eye. "You don't need me to tell you. Deep down you already know it."

"Valentine?"

"Will you stay?" She asked, gripping her hand around the back of his neck, pulling his face toward hers until their foreheads touched lightly. "Will you stay, even if what I tell you is awful?"

"He's dead because of me," she sobbed., feeling his body stiffen beside her. "It's my doing."

He held her close, asking no questions. She wondered whether he feared to know the answers of the questions he had, but Valentine knew that Michael understood the way of the world. He knew that there were good people and bad people and people in between that did all manners of things for all sorts of reasons. He knew who she was. And that was all that mattered as he pulled her closer, squashing the sounds of er cries against his chest.

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