Made

He tried to find her through legitimate means, thinking that it would be better than searching for her at every dingy hostel he could find. After waiting ten hours, he went to the police. They took a photo of her, and an item belonging to her (luckily she'd left her duffle bag), and asked him questions about where she might have gone. Two hours later, they assured him they would try to find her. The next morning, he was called into the station, and a thin-lipped officer told him that the investigation was closed, and wouldn't answer any more questions. Feeling like shit, he went back to London.

The three hour train ride was long enough and comfortable enough that he could drunkenly watch the landscape go by and sign a few autographs. He hadn't shaved or showered, and felt grimy and gross, but put on his dazzling smile anyway.

When he finally made it back to his house, it was the early evening, and he wanted nothing more than to shower, eat, and get ridiculously drunk. He sighed, looking at his house. It really was a beautiful one, specially designed by an architecture bigwig he'd read about in magazines. It was a steal at almost £2 million, and was large enough to accommodate the family he hoped to have.
He trudged up the steps and straight into the bathroom, sliding the door closed as he started the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he felt gloriously clean, and especially warm. It wasn't that cold outside, but something about the shower made him feel as though he had always been freezing, and had finally warmed up. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and trudged back downstairs to the kitchen. It was his house, he reasoned. He could be shirtless if he wanted to. There wasn't anyone to cover up for.

After hours of shit television and even shittier takeout, he was uproariously drunk. He felt much better than he had before, and had nearly put Laila out of his mind, enough so to enjoy the episode of Strictly Come Dancing that was on. It wasn't mentally stimulating, but it was on.

Midnight rang out on the cuckoo clock he'd thought was a good idea when he bought it. He sighed, the giddiness from the alcohol dissipating quickly. He knew that his bedroom was on the second floor of the house, but could only muster up the energy to crawl up one flight of steps, and so he threw himself into one of the guest room beds, idly noticing that the shape of the comforter around him almost felt like another person before he passed out.

The first things he noticed when he woke up was that the sun hadn't come up yet, and that his shirt was wet. Well, his chest was wet. He also realized that he still wasn't wearing a shirt.

He instinctively brought his hands up to his chest, colliding with a head that was there. He gently stroked the scalp of whomever was making his chest wet, recognizing the feel of the hair beneath him.
Michael made quiet shushing noises, trying not to startle her. His anger had dissipated, and now he just wanted to go back to sleep.

"I'm sorry," Laila said, breaking away from his chest. "I'm getting you all wet."

"Yeah," he deadpanned. "You also left me in Manchester."

She gave him a wry smile, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"I don't like being tied up," she said.

He wiped a stray tear from the bridge of her nose, and raised one of his eyebrows.

"I'm beginning to think you don't like anything."

Her face crumpled, fresh tears threatening to spill out.

"Are you gonna get rid of me?" she whispered.

He thought about it. He could. Just send her on her way. She could go back to wherever it was she was from, and he could save himself the headache. But he'd always wonder what happened to her.

"No," he said. "I don't suppose I will."

She didn't smile, didn't offer up that same grin that let him know that she was making fun of him. This was genuine. Laila was scared.

"He got rid of me," she said. "He left me there."

He could feel himself waking up a bit more now. She'd been putting on performances, just stringing him along, but now she was telling the truth.

"Left you where?"

She shook her head, a sob escaping her lips.
He reached out, running his fingers through her hair, ending at her chin. She was looking down at the bed, clutching at the sheets.

"Hey," he said softly, trying to get her attention. "Hey. I'm not gonna get rid of you."

Laila nodded, but was still crying. He drew her back to his chest, rubbing circles on her back as she calmed down. After what felt like an hour, the two of them drifted back to sleep.