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Michael squinted at the coffee machine as if it was trying to outsmart him.
“Alright,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
He didn’t understand why everything had to be so damn complicated these days. It was coffee, not open-heart surgery. You scoop the stuff, you pour the water, and you drink it—end of story. But this thing? It looked like it belonged in a Sci-Fi flick.
His eyes dropped to the instructions Amanda had taped to the side.
Even her handwriting was bossy.
1. Fill tank with water.
Water. Right.
He yanked the tank out from the side of the machine. It gave a reluctant clunk, like it didn’t want to cooperate. Typical.
Michael crossed the kitchen, tank in hand, and turned on the faucet. He leaned against the counter as it filled, scratching absently at his stomach. His eyes wandered to the window.
Another beautiful morning in Los Santos. The sky was that clean, painted blue that never lasted much past lunch once the smog rolled in. The same neat backyard: two sun loungers no one used, and a pool already glittering under the sun.
Picture perfect.
The tank jolted in his hand as the water hit at a bad angle. A sudden spray bounced off the plastic and smacked him right in the chest.
“Aahh, God damn it!” he barked, stepping back.
Great. Now his T-shirt—an old, soft blue one that he actually liked—was soaked down the front.
Michael shook his head, muttering a string of curses as he twisted the faucet off with slightly more force than necessary.
“I just want a cup of coffee…” he grumbled, trudging back towards the machine. It beeped angrily when he shoved the tank back in.
“What now? Huh? You don’t like that? Too rough for you?” He pulled it out and shoved it in again. Another beep.
“You little son-of-a…” Michael’s jaw clenched. “Alright, fine, we’re doing this gently. There. Happy now? Princess?”
No more beeps. Just two flashing green lights.
That good or bad?
He stepped back a little, eyeing the machine like it might explode. Before he had the chance to grapple with what the hell he did next, Amanda interrupted him.
“Morning Michael,” she said, head peaking round the corner as she dried off her hair with a towel. “Oh… you’re not dressed yet?”
What’s she whining about now?
…Oh.
Michael looked down. Boxers. Slippers. Right. He hadn’t even had the chance to pick out today’s outfit yet.
And I’ll have to change my shirt now anyway. Damn thing…
“Can’t a man enjoy his morning in peace?”
“Well, please get ready soon. You remember about today, don’t you? We’ve got someone stopping by this morning.”
Christ, woman. No, he didn’t remember. She probably never even told him—it wasn’t like she ever warned him about her poolside gossip hours, or when one of those bendy yoga freaks was coming over.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just let me finish my coffee, and I’ll doll myself up for your guest.”
“Sure, Michael. Just…” Amanda lowered the towel, arms crossing as she looked him over. He still hadn’t turned around to face her. “…just don’t keep them waiting, okay?”
Michael waved his hand dismissively. Amanda sighed—the long-suffering kind—and headed back upstairs to finish getting ready for the day.
Whatever, he repeated in his head. Didn’t matter anyway. Let her have her company. She wasn’t the only one with a guest coming round today—he had one of his own.
Trevor.
A sly grin teased at his face. That was really gonna piss her off when he showed up.
Michael was actually looking forward to seeing him. Not that he’d ever say it out loud. Jesus, he’d sooner eat his own foot. And Trevor would never shut up about it if he knew. The guy would make a whole goddamn parade out of Michael “missing him,” complete with fireworks and some unhinged speech about loyalty.
But the truth? Trevor was… entertaining. A pain in the ass, sure, but an entertaining one. He could raise Michael’s blood pressure just from the way he breathed, but he kept him on his toes. Forced him to stay sharp. The banter, the arguing, the way every conversation felt like sparring with a lunatic… it was exhausting, but in a way that almost felt good.
Nobody else could keep up with Michael the way Trevor could. Nobody ever had.
Yeah. They could hang around here for a while, catch up. Maybe hit the town and grab a few beers later. Try to keep him out of too much trouble.
2. Put cup under dispenser.
Right. Cup. Cup, cup, cup.
Michael yanked open a cabinet, but no mugs. Of course. He swore she moved the kitchen around just to screw with him. Couldn’t leave anything where it belonged. No, everything had to be feng shui. What, the dishes weren’t aligned with the spiritual axis of the house? Did the silverware need to face magnetic north?
Sighing, he shook his head and grabbed a glass tumbler instead. It’d do. He wasn’t wasting any more time on this scavenger hunt. He just wanted a goddamn caffeine fix.
He was gonna need it today. Even if Trevor had been doing better.
A lot better.
And to think, Michael had nearly written him off. How many times could a guy OD and bounce back like it was a party trick? The drugs, the razorblade stunts, the blackout binges. Every time the phone rang past midnight, Michael thought: That’s it. This is the one. That someone had found Trevor sprawled on a bathroom floor with his wrists open or his lungs full of puke.
Ugly, rotten memories that made his stomach turn, even now.
Michael’s gaze drifted back to the pool outside. The water was so still it looked fake, like a pane of glass.
He thought about that night years ago, when he’d dragged Trevor out of the river behind that shitty motel. T had been under for—what, a minute? Two? Long enough that Michael had already pictured the body bag. He could still feel the weight of Trevor’s arm slung around his shoulders, dead weight, water pouring out of his nose and mouth like he was drowning all over again.
He hadn’t even coughed at first. Just went limp, eyes rolled back, skin cold and waxy. And Michael—Jesus, he’d actually screamed, slapping him across the face, yelling at him to come back, because who the hell else would he yell at if Trevor wasn’t around?
Trevor came back with a choke and a laugh, spitting river water, eyes wild.
He’d laughed like it was a joke. Like dying was just another hobby.
Michael blinked at the pool now, the sun flashing off its surface. Still. Silent.
Memories…
But there’d definitely been a change in Trevor lately. Maybe he’d found some new kind of purpose. Michael didn’t know. All he knew was that Trevor wasn’t write-off material. Not yet.
That’s what today was about. Why Michael had invited him over. He wanted to see him—really see him—and make sure the fire was still there.
He put the tumbler under the dispenser.
Maybe Trevor was finally ready to stop running.
Not quitting, exactly—just slowing down. Picking his battles. Maybe Michael could start nudging him towards… some version of a normal life.
“Normal.” Whatever that was.
That’s what they’d always said, back when they were still dumb enough to believe they had control over anything. No more big jobs. No more banks. No more heat. It was what they’d been aiming for, even while they were blowing holes in safes and running from helicopters. The end goal was always the same: get in, get rich, get out.
And maybe—just maybe—Michael could help Trevor get out for good.
He pressed the Start button on the machine. It beeped once, then did absolutely nothing.
Michael sighed. “Of course. Of course. Why would you just make coffee when that’s literally all you’re for?”
“Do y’need help with that?”
Amanda’s voice snapped him out of it. She’d come in without a sound, and Michael spun around like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“What? No. I’m good. Got it,” he said quickly.
Amanda had a beige pair of pants draped over her arm. She thrust them towards him. “Here. Put these on. Please.”
Michael grumbled, rolling his eyes, but took them anyway. Can’t even pick my own clothes these days…
Amanda’s gaze lingered on him, weary but patient. “You need to put a coffee pod in,” she said, nodding at the machine.
Michael turned back to it, jaw tightening. “Yeah, I know. Coffee machine needs a coffee pod. I get it, alright?”
“Put the pants on, Michael. We’ll have company soon. I’m gonna go ask the gardener not to use the leaf blower this morning.”
He gave her one curt nod as she left the kitchen again.
Michael tugged on the pants without bothering to kick the slippers off first. He grabbed a dish towel and started dabbing at his wet T-shirt.
When’s Trevor gonna show up, anyway? Did we even set a time? Or is he just gonna rock up when the mood strikes, like always?
He scanned the counters until he spotted the basket with the coffee pods in it. Blue… orange… one said smooth, the other dark roast.
“Dark roast it is,” he muttered.
3. Pop the lid and put the pod in.
He pressed the Open button, and the lid sprang up with a hiss. Easy. Except the pod didn’t slide in the way he’d hoped. It jammed halfway, mocking him.
Michael groaned—loud, dramatic—and tossed the pod back on the counter. He planted both hands on the edge, leaning all his weight into it, shoulders sagging as he tried to compose himself.
Look at me. Old-man slacks, wrestling with some overpriced piece of junk. Trevor’s gonna have a field day.
Not that he cared what Trevor thought. Well. Not really.
…Except maybe he did.
It had always mattered to Michael, having Trevor’s respect. Even if he’d never been able to understand why. Hell, it should’ve been the other way around—Trevor chasing his approval. It was Trevor under Michael’s wing, after all.
Michael never had any “mentors,” no older guy trying to show him the ropes, no big brother figure. He’d always had to figure it out on his own—get smart fast or get buried.
He was The Mentor. Always had been.
And Trevor was his stray he’d picked up along the way. A half-feral puppy he’d tried to train to bark at the right times, bite the right people. Keep him from chewing through the furniture—or his own arm.
Well. Tried to, at least.
He doubted Trevor saw it that way. T probably thought he was the one teaching Michael a thing or two—how to be fearless, how to stop caring what anyone thought. But Michael knew better. He saw it for what it really was.
What it really was…
Oh.
There they were again. Those… thoughts.
Michael straightened up, rubbing a hand down his face like he could wipe them away.
The thoughts he tried not to think. The ones he avoided like landmines.
Except lately, they were all he ever seemed to think about.
Those nights in the motel hadn’t meant anything. How could they?
They’d been lying low, both of them half convinced their luck had finally run out. Couldn’t leave. Couldn’t risk it. The world outside had felt like it was closing in, and that winter had been the worst on record—ice on the windows, frost creeping under the door.
Michael told himself it was stress. Cabin fever. Just two guys stuck in a bad spot, drinking too much, waiting for the knock on the door. He’d let it happen because… maybe he thought it’d make Trevor want to keep going. To fight through the withdrawals. To keep holding on—for him.
But it didn’t mean anything.
Michael snatched the pod off the counter again and rammed it into the slot, giving the lid three solid shoves before the damn thing finally clicked into place.
He cared about Trevor, sure. Maybe more than he cared about most people. And he knew Trevor cared about him, too, even if he had the strangest ways of showing it—screaming one second, laughing the next, ready to burn the whole world down if Michael asked him to.
They’d been through hell together. That kind of thing bonds people. Makes you close.
It didn’t mean anything.
Michael slammed his palm against the Brew button, and the machine jolted awake with a series of whirring, grinding noises like it was chewing gravel.
They were just two guys blowing off steam. They hadn’t even seen a woman in weeks, let alone been with one. It was normal. Basic human need. That was all.
There was no reason to keep thinking about it.
He was going to see Trevor today. And he was going to talk to him—really talk to him. Get him to wind down, stop tempting fate, start thinking long-term.
No more nights staring at the ceiling worrying about him. No more terrible memories.
Michael was going to make sure Trevor would finally be safe this time.
The machine whirred louder. Then it started to sputter.
A violent spray of coffee burst from the lid—thin, watery, full of half-dissolved granules. It hit the counter, the backsplash, the floor.
And Michael.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he shouted, throwing his hands over the machine like he could physically hold the disaster in.
“Michael! What are you doing?!”
Amanda was back, horrified.
“It’s fine! I’ve got this!” he barked, flinching as another burst of steaming sludge splattered across the cabinet door.
“Why won’t you ever just let me help you!?”
“I don’t need your help! It’s just coffee!”
“For the love of God , Michael—the mess! Here—”
“I’ve got it!”
Ignoring him, Amanda stormed across the kitchen and flicked the switch off at the wall. The machine let out a final, strangled hiss before falling silent.
Michael stood there, soaked, shirt stained brown.
Frustrated.
Humiliated.
His temper was hanging by a thread now.
“I was handling it.”
Amanda’s expression was unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stepped forward to pop the lid on the machine.
“You put the pod in the wrong way.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
She didn’t look at him—kept her eyes on the floor, the dripping mess. Anything but him.
“You’re having a bad day,” she said quietly. “Go change your clothes. They’ll be here soon. I’ll clean this up—”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
“Michael—”
“No, no, I get it!” he snapped. “I’m just some old guy who can’t even make his own coffee, right? Useless. Get him outta the way before company shows up.” He waved his arms, sending drops of coffee flying. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay well clear. I’ve got plans of my own.”
“Michael—”
“Trevor’ll be here soon,” he said, with a bitter smile. “We’ll have some real drinks. Not this fancy bullshit.”
Amanda froze.
Her lips parted, eyes widening like the words had knocked the breath out of her.
“Michael…” she said with a shuddering breath. “Trevor isn’t coming round here.”
“You bet he is,” Michael said, smirking now, mean and sure. “He’ll be here any minute.”
Amanda’s eyes fluttered shut. She drew in a long breath, like she was counting to ten.
“We’ve been through this. Trevor isn’t com—”
“YOU CAN’T STOP ME FROM SEEING HIM!” Michael bellowed, lunging a step closer, rage boiling over. This bossy bitch was always like this when it came to Trevor. He’d had enough.
“I don’t give a shit what you think of him! I don’t give a shit what you think, period! I’d rather be with him than stuck here with YOU!”
Spit flew from his mouth. The last word landed hard—seething, ugly, resentful. Meant to wound. “I wish you’d leave me the fuck alone, woman!”
Amanda snapped. Her voice cracked as she pushed back, just as loud, just as close.
“Why are you doing this?! Why’s it always about him when you’re having a bad day?! Why am I always the bad guy?”
Her eyes narrowed, desperate to make him hear her.
“Michael! Trevor isn’t coming round because he’s dead!”
Michael’s forehead creased, eyebrows pulling tight as he straightened up, staring at her like she’d just started speaking another language.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He’s been dead for twelve years!”
Her words didn’t make any sense. They bounced around in his skull, wrong. All wrong.
His rage came roaring back, shoving the confusion aside.
How fucking dare she.
“What the fuck are you talking about?!” He jabbed a finger at her. “Why are you try’na to confuse me, huh? Trevor’s not fucking dead. We’re hanging out today!”
“You were there! You helped murder him, for fuck’s sake! Michael, please! Please just remember this time! I can’t keep doing this!”
Amanda knew she shouldn’t be yelling at him like this. She knew it never helped. But she couldn’t stop herself. All the stress, all the frustration, all the years of hurt just boiled over whenever he said Trevor’s name—that awful man who had poisoned her life, her marriage, her family for the better part of thirty years.
Even dead, that bastard still found a way to leave a path of destruction.
Michael shook his head, over and over, mouth slack, eyes wide. He slowly backed away from her.
“I’d never do that to T. I’d never even think about it. Never. You—” his voice cracked into a snarl. “—you skank. You disgusting whore! Why the hell are you saying this!?”
Amanda had heard worse from him during these moments, but it still hurt. It always did.
“Arrrgghh! Fuck you, Michael!”
She grabbed the tumbler—still slick with water and grit—and hurled it across the floor. It shattered against the tiles, making them both flinch. Still, it wasn’t nearly loud enough.
She’d have thrown another if there was one within reach. She’d throw every glass in the kitchen if it meant stopping herself from hitting him. Over and over.
Anything to stop herself from running out the door and never coming back.
From disappearing altogether.
“I hate him! I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!” Her voice cracked, chest heaving. “Why him?! It’s like you’re doing it on purpose! You’re doing it just to hurt me!”
Her eyes burned with tears, fury and heartbreak twisting her voice into something raw.
“Why is he stuck in there? How is it only him you remember? To spite me? You don’t even know who I am right now, do you?!”
Michael’s hands opened and closed, fists clenching and unclenching.
He didn’t know.
He turned away from her, chest heaving. Behind him, Amanda let out a horrible sob. He didn’t look back.
Instead he paced the kitchen, hands dragging through his hair, pulling too rough. “What the fuck…” he muttered under his breath. He did know. He remembered that he knew. So why the hell was she trying to screw with his head like this? Why would she say that?
Trevor.
He’d spoken to him. They’d arranged this. He was coming over. Wasn’t he?
And then—
A flash.
Gone as quickly as it came.
Trevor’s face. Eyes wild, desperate. Screaming.
Flames.
Michael’s whole body tensed.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to claw the flash of Trevor’s face back. To grab hold of it, to look at it. To figure out what the hell it meant, whether it was real.
But it slipped away like water through his fingers.
Gone.
Amanda sank to her knees, sweeping the shards of glass with trembling hands as her tears finally spilled over. She didn’t bother hiding them anymore.
“All he ever did was cause us pain,” she said, voice thick with grief. “And all I ever did was take care of you. Take care of our family. I built a life with you. For you. And what am I left with?”
Michael barely heard her. His mind was buzzing too loud. He was pacing again, muttering under his breath—broken strings of thought that didn’t fit together.
He caught a flicker of movement in the window—his own reflection in the glass. For a moment, he could’ve sworn his hair was grey. His face was sunken. Older.
He blinked it away.
Didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to know.
Behind him, Amanda spoke again.
“It wasn’t even the first time you tried to kill him, you know,” she said, quieter now. Bitter.
“You tried to have him shot back in 2004. You set it all up. And yet here we are.” She looked up from the broken glass, eyes bloodshot and brimming. “Even after all that, he’s still somehow the person who matters most to you.”
Michael stopped pacing.
That wasn’t true. That couldn’t be true, it didn’t make sense. Tried to have Trevor shot?
He wasn’t a monster. He’d never—
He was only ever trying to help Trevor, not hurt him even more.
She was lying.
She had to be lying.
“Uh… knock knock?”
A man’s voice, nervous but trying for friendly.
They both turned. A man in a pale pink shirt stood in the doorway, gripping a briefcase and wearing a grin far too wide for the tension in the room.
“Uhh… sorry. Your gardener told me to just head on in.” His eyes flicked between the coffee-splattered counter, the broken glass on the floor, and their faces—Amanda’s red and wet, Michael rigid and silent. “I can see this is a bad time.”
Michael just stared at him, unblinking.
Amanda quickly swiped at her tears, standing up as if sheer posture could erase the mess.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Mr Milner.” She stepped forward, hand outstretched. He took it. “Michael’s having a Bad Day. He’s… confused. I… I would’ve called to cancel, but he’s been fine all week. This just… came out of nowhere.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
“What is this?” His tone was pointed, defensive—as if the stranger’s very presence in his kitchen was a threat.
“Mr. De Santa. Michael,” the man said gently. “Do you remember me today? I’m Mr. Milner. We’ve been working together on your dementia diagnosis.”
He offered a handshake.
Michael didn’t take it.
This had to be some kind of sick fucking joke.
“Look, I don’t know who’s put you up to this,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “But get the fuck outta my house. I mean it, pal.”
“Why don’t we take a seat, Michael?” Mr. Milner said calmly, hands open in a show of peace. “Tell me how you’re feeling today—”
“Get the FUCK outta my house!” Michael roared, cutting him off.
The venom in his voice was thick enough to burn. He stood like he was about to charge at the man, shoulders squared, fists balled.
“Michael!” Amanda shouted, stepping in. “Don’t talk to him like that! Just listen to him!”
“I’m not confused!” Michael yelled, turning on her now. Features twisted, teeth bared. “I’m not having a bad day! I just… I just—”
His eyes landed on the ruined coffee machine.
“I just need some coffee,” he mumbled, his voice breaking, desperate now. “It’s… it’s why I can’t think straight. I just… I just need a cup of coffee…”
His words faltered, trailing off as though all the fight had drained from him in a single breath.
Mr. Milner glanced at Amanda, reading her torn expression.
“Why don’t you step outside for a bit, Mrs. De Santa?” he said patiently. “Michael and I can talk in here. You mentioned last time there’s a new grandchild in the family—maybe give your daughter a call, check in with her? It might help to clear your head. I know how hard this is on everyone.”
Amanda’s gaze flicked to Michael—still standing there, shoulders slumped, looking smaller somehow. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. Not now.
She knew the right thing to do would be to stay, to help him. But in this moment, she couldn’t.
She couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as him.
“Yeah… yeah, okay,” she murmured. “Tracey needs to know at least one of us isn’t gonna forget about the baby.”
Blunt. Resigned. Sad.
She exchanged a brief nod with Mr. Milner and slipped out through the back door.
There wasn’t enough time for forgiveness now. It was too late. Michael’s declining health had let all the clues slip, and with it came all the things she’d tried for decades to ignore. All the quiet suspicions she’d buried about his twisted bond with that man.
Trevor Philips.
Soon, it seemed, that name would be the only thing left rattling around inside her husband’s head.
Trevor...
Michael’s head felt thick, like fog pressing in from all sides. Maybe he just hadn’t slept. Maybe that was all. Trevor would be here soon, and they’d have a drink, and all this bullshit would be over. That would settle everything, once and for all.
He followed Mr. Milner into the living room, dragging his feet, just wanting to get whatever the hell this was over with.
But something stopped him halfway to the couch.
Another flash.
Trevor’s face, close enough to feel his breath. Close enough that their noses were brushing in quiet nuzzles. A white bedsheet. A pillow. Heat radiating from skin and low, broken whispers. Barely words. Trevor’s eyes fluttering shut, a small, unguarded smile—the most at peace Michael had ever seen him. A palm against a chest, heartbeat meeting heartbeat until they felt like one. Soft, desperate hums into each other’s mouths.
Michael froze, his pulse roaring in his ears.
This one didn’t slip away like the others.
It never did.