I hear him before I see him. Well correction, I hear his truck. I didn’t know what it was. The sound of metal scraping along the asphalt was loud—so loud it even reverberated in my kitchen. Which isn’t easy to do now because those new windows that Michael had installed are amazing at keeping the sound out. I run to grab my gun. I know it’s stupid, but having something to protect myself makes me feel…safer. I don’t like being helpless. I’ve been that way too much in my life. My heart is pounding hard against my chest, and I’m having trouble catching my breath. I’m doing my best to fight down the panic, the memory of the other day is still really fresh. I make it outside and calm down when I see Michael’s truck, fishtailing around the corner. My first thought is that something is horribly wrong, all thought of the sound is blotted out of my mind with that fear. But then I notice his tires. Surely, he knew riding on his tire rim like that was crazy? Instead of replacing a tire now he will have to replace a rim too. It makes much more sense just to change the tire.

“Michael?” I ask when he jumps out of the vehicle and begins marching towards me.

“Put the gun down,” he growls, and it’s then I notice I’m half-way aiming at him.

I lower the gun and lay it securely in an old wooden glider that’s sitting close by. By the time I turn back around, Michael is there. He grabs me roughly, his hands biting into the skin on my arms. He almost shakes me, bringing me in close to him.

“Michael?” I ask again, confused. His face is angrier now than I’ve ever seen it. His eyes bore into me, their dark depths slightly terrifying. There’s a dark energy rolling off of him in waves. He’s literally vibrating with it.

“Are you okay?” he growls, his eyes raking over me, and I have a feeling they’re inventorying everything about me.

“I’m fine. I was just about to take a nap,” I tell him, sounding a little bit guilty. I should have gone into work today, but I just couldn’t handle the thought of it.

“No one has been here to bother you?” he asks.

“No one has been here. Michael, is something going on?”

“I was run off the road. I just wanted to make sure they didn’t come here,” he says taking a step back, his arms dropping to his side. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, while looking around the house as if he expects someone to jump out at any time.

“You were what? Oh my God! Are you okay?” I ask him, and this time it’s me that goes to him. I reach out and touch his face. “You’ve got so much hair you could be dying under there and I’d never know,” I grumble, not realizing I’m saying it aloud. I let my hands move down his neck and shoulders, not finding anything wrong, but panicked at the thought that something could have happened to him.

“I think you’d know if I was wounded,” he grumbles from above me, and I stop and look up at him. I realize I said the remark about his hair out loud then. I also notice that Michael looks a little more relaxed.

“You could be hiding a family of squirrels in that hair and I wouldn’t know it,” I tease him. Almost without thought, I reach up to touch the beard in question. The fine, wiry hair tickles against my fingertips. His hands come up to capture mine, stopping their exploration. His hold is solid, but not painful and he doesn’t pull my hands away from him or step back. We stand there. His big hands swallowing mine, his thumbs pressed against the inside of my palms.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asks, and I get this feeling in my stomach—a nervous flutter. I press my lips tightly together and swallow as I try to figure out what is going on here. It feels…important. I feel him releasing a breath, then slowly, he drops my hands, and steps away from me. I fight the urge to follow him. He looks away from me—towards his truck.

“We need to call the police,” I tell him, my voice sounding strange even to my ears.

“I’ll deal with it.”

“What? No. You should contact the police. They need to know what happened. Maybe if you give them a description of who did this they can find them.”

“I know who did it.”

“You can’t just let—What did you say?”

“I said I know who did it. I’ll deal with them,” he states, calmly. He could be telling me the forecast has rain in it tonight, he’s that calm and looks that bored.

“Who is it?” I demand. If Michael knows who it is, then most likely I do. I’ve lived here longer. He studies me for a minute and something moves across his face, I’m not sure I like.

“No one you know. I need to call roadside assistance again, and tell them I need them to come to the house with a tow truck. Then I need to get some things out of the back of my truck. Can you hold the door open for me?” he calls over his shoulder, turning away from me.

“How can it be someone I don’t know? I’ve been here longer than you…” I return, confused. It feels like he’s dismissing me, and I can’t say that I like it very much.

“You don’t,” he just insists, putting his phone up to his ear. How would I not know them?

“Are they from your past?” I ask, suddenly making a connection. He used to belong to a club. These kind of things happened all the time with the Dwellers. Maybe Michael’s club isn’t that different from them after all. I don’t like the way that conclusion makes me feel. I don’t like thinking anything bad about Michael. Maybe he needed a fresh start. Maybe that’s why he left. I can understand that and if that’s it, then I can certainly understand that too.

Michael finishes his phone conversation, while standing at the foot of his truck, leaning into the tailgate. His head his down so I can’t see his face. His dark hair has spilled forward, covering him and what it doesn’t hide his beard hides the rest. He’s dressed all in black. I remember Pastor Sturgill’s remark yet again about Michael being an archangel. Right now, he looks like a fallen angel and he shouldn’t look as good as he does to me…

But he does.