"You're crazy."
"Alright now," Michael said, his voice rough but steady. "Get off me. You're quite heavy."
Rose froze, realizing the position they'd fallen into. Her hands pressed against his chest, their faces close enough for her to feel his breath. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She scrambled to her feet at once, brushing at her gown with trembling hands.
"H-how dare you," she stammered, flustered. "I'm not that heavy!"
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Oh yeah? I think my chest just caved in."
She gasped, part offense, part disbelief. Michael raised an arm, still half on his side. "Little help here?"
Despite herself, Rose hesitated, then reached for his hand. His grip was warm, firm until suddenly, it wasn't.
"Arggh!"
The strength drained from his fingers. His face twisted in pain as a sharp gasp tore from his throat.
"Sir?" Rose said, alarmed. "Are you all right?"
He didn't answer. His hand went to his chest, clutching hard, searching his coat pockets in a frantic motion. "W-where… is it?" he rasped, his voice strangled with pain.
Blue veins began to pulse beneath his skin, snaking across his neck and jaw. The sight froze her blood.
"Where is what?" she asked helplessly, but then he collapsed to his knees, gasping, his eyes glassy with pain.
"Help!" Rose screamed, turning toward the empty deck. "Someone, please!"
"N-no," he wheezed, forcing the words out. "Don't—just… find my syringe…"
Rose's heart thundered in her chest. She spun around, scanning the empty deck, until a glint of metal caught her eye near the railing. She rushed toward it, skirts tangling around her legs, and scooped up a silver syringe that had rolled against the gunwale.
"This?" she cried, hurrying back.
He nodded weakly. His trembling hands took it from her, fumbling before pressing the injector against his arm.
A sharp hiss followed. Within seconds, the strange discoloration began to fade. The unnatural veins receded, and his breathing, though ragged, started to steady.
Rose knelt beside him, wide-eyed, as the color slowly returned to his face. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and leaned back against the deck railing, eyes closed.
For a long moment, the only sound was the roar of the sea and the slow rhythm of his breathing.
Then his gaze lifted toward her, calm now, though exhaustion lingered in his expression. "Thank you," he said quietly.
Rose didn't speak at first. Her pulse was still racing, her mind spinning with confusion.
Finally, she whispered, "You're welcome…" her voice barely carrying over the hum of the engines. Then, after a pause, she asked, "Who are you?"
Michael's breathing had steadied now, the storm in his chest slowly easing. He looked up at her through the fringe of his dark hair, his tone quieter now. "My name's Michael," he said, voice still a little rough. "Michael Morbius."
Rose hesitated, her fingers tightening around her skirt. "Rose DeWitt Bukater."
He offered a faint, tired smile. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Bukater… though I'd say this isn't the ideal introduction."
Before she could respond, the metallic clang of boots rang out across the deck.
"Here, what's all this?!"
Quartermaster Rowe appeared, sliding down the ladder from the docking bridge like it was a fire drill. He sprinted across the fantail, his lantern swinging wildly. His eyes widened at the scene before him the disheveled young woman in an evening gown, sobbing, her hem torn and stockings ripped; and beside her, a man in a dark coat, equally breathless and out of place.
Rowe's face hardened instantly. "What happened here?"
Rose tried to speak, but her voice trembled too much to form words. Michael glanced at her, saying nothing, letting her find her own voice but Rowe had already drawn his conclusions.
---
A few minutes later…
Michael sat inside a office lit by a single lamp. The ship's engines rumbled faintly through the floor.
Bang!
The door to the office slammed open as Cal stormed in, still flushed with rage, his bowtie slightly crooked. Ruth trailed behind, grim as ever, while Hester looked mildly entertained by the drama, swirling her Bloody Mary as if watching a parlor play.
Rose sat nearby on a wooden bench, wrapped in a blanket, her shoulders trembling. Hester offered her the wine with an awkward attempt at gentility. "There, there, my dear. Take a sip, calm your nerves."
She shook her head and waved it away.
Cal ignored her completely, his eyes locked on Michael like a predator's. In one sharp movement, he lunged forward and seized Michael by the collar.
"What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancée?!" he snarled, shaking him once. "Look at me, you filth! What did you think you were doing?!"
The Master at Arms started forward. "Sir—"
"Cal, stop!" Rose's voice broke through, her tone sharp with both fear and guilt. She stood nearby, still trembling, her hair disheveled from the wind, eyes red from tears. "It was an accident!"
Cal didn't look at her. His knuckles tightened on Michael's coat. "Accident? He had his hands on you!"
Michael didn't move at first. His eyes were calm... too calm but beneath the stillness, something dark flickered. He slowly raised his gaze to meet Cal's, his tone low, deliberate, and edged with restrained fury.
"I'd suggest," he said evenly, "you take your hands off me."
Cal's jaw clenched. "You dare—"
"I dare a lot of things," Michael interrupted, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Slowly, deliberately, he removed Cal's hand from his lapel. His gaze was unshaken, even faintly amused. "But I don't touch women without consent mister."
For a moment, the air between them was heavy.
Rowe shifted uneasily. "Sir, perhaps—"
But Cal wasn't listening. His pride burned too bright. "Do you know who I am?"
Michael tilted his head slightly, his tone dry as winter air. "Well, I've certainly had the misfortune of meeting you now," he replied. "But before this charming introduction, I can't say your name ever mattered."
Hester's lips curl in amusement as she watches the drama reach its climax.
Cal's face went crimson. "You insolent—"
The Master at Arms finally stepped in, raising a hand. "Gentlemen, please! Mr. Hockley, Professor—this is a misunderstanding, nothing more. Both of you are first-class passengers, and this ship doesn't tolerate disturbances among our distinguished guests."
Rose's trembling voice cut through again, fear and shame mixing in her expression. "Please," she said quietly, "it's not what it looks like. He didn't do anything wrong. It was my fault. H-He saved me."
Cal turned toward her, disbelief and frustration warring across his features. "Saved you? From what?"
Rose's eyes dropped to the floor. "From going over."
The room went still.
Cal's anger faltered for the first time, replaced by confusion and then fear. "You mean to tell me you were—"
"I slipped," she said again, her tone sharper now, final.
Michael stood then, brushing his coat sleeve as if Cal's grip had left dust there. "If that satisfies your curiosity, Mr. Hockley," he said, "I'd appreciate being dismissed. I'd rather not spend my evening justifying an act of decency."
The Master at Arms nodded quickly. "Yes, sir, of course. I'll note it as an unfortunate misunderstanding."
Cal clenched his jaw but said nothing more, too aware of the eyes watching him.
Michael turned toward Rose briefly, his voice softer now. "Take care of yourself, miss."
Then, without waiting for a reply, he left the room with the quiet dignity of someone who refused to be diminished.