Munich's sky hung low and grey, the kind of grey that promised snow and never quite delivered. The university's glass doors slid open, releasing a puff of warmth and the murmur of half-empty lecture halls.

Michael was there.

Leaning against the bike rack like he owned it, his breath fogging in thin, unhurried clouds. His football bag hung off one shoulder, his locks pulled back into a low ponytail, the tips brushing the collar of his training jacket. He hadn't changed. Still in the Bayern kit, still smelling faintly of grass and sweat.