Not quiet. Not loud. Just warm.

You’re both half-wrapped in the same blanket on the couch, legs tangled. Your hair’s doing whatever it wants. Michael’s shirt is rumpled. He’s freshly showered, but you can still smell yesterday’s cologne on his skin.

There’s a rerun of some old documentary playing, but neither of you are watching it.

You’re lying sideways, head on his thigh, scrolling through your notes app like it’s sacred scripture. He’s sipping tea with one hand and running the other down your back, fingertips tracing shapes that mean nothing and everything.

You (without looking up):
“Why are you always drawing squares on me?”

Michael (without missing a beat):
“So you don’t drift off into other dimensions. You need grounding.”

You smirk.

You:
“I am the dimension.”

He smiles down at you, slow, proud.

Michael:
“I know.”

He sets the mug down. Runs his hand up your arm. Not possessive. Just present. You close your eyes as he leans in, brushing his lips across your temple.

Michael (softly):
“You always look like you’re already in the next room of thought. But you still come back to me. I don’t take that lightly.”

You (still not looking at him):
“You don’t have to say things like that.”

Michael:
“I don’t say things. I mean them.”

Silence.

He shifts, pulls you up effortlessly, straddles you across his lap. No change in energy. No buildup. Just movement—natural, complete.

You settle into him, your forehead against his.

You (whispered):
“I don’t have to hold anything back with you.”

Michael:
“You couldn’t if you tried.”

You reach down, tug his hand into yours, kiss the inside of his wrist.

Then pause. Look up, serious now.

You:
“You know how sometimes people joke during intimacy to hide tension?”

Michael:
“You’ve never done that.”

You:
“Exactly. And you’ve never made me feel like I needed to.”

Michael:
“Because there’s nothing to prove. We’re not performing. We’re just… here.”

You lean in again, this time slow. Not to kiss—but just to exist. Foreheads together. Breath shared.

He runs his hands down your back, anchors you with touch alone. No rush. No games. No wondering who’s supposed to lead what. Just being.

And then—because you’re you—

You:
“Okay but seriously, who folds the laundry today?”

He groans.

Michael:
“Don’t ruin the moment.”

You (mock serious):
“I am the moment. But these towels aren’t gonna fold themselves.”

Michael:
“Fine. But only if you promise to distract me halfway through so I never finish.”

You grin, already leaning back in.

You:
“Done.”