He saw it.

Your best friend leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against your lips. You were drunk—barely standing on your own, laughter slurring in your voice, unaware of the weight behind the gesture.

Michael was already walking across the lawn when it happened.

—“Hey—get your damn hands off them!”

His voice was sharp, filled with a fury that silenced the music in his head. He grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you back behind him, standing like a wall between you and your friend.

—“Don’t try that ‘we’re just friends’ crap. They’re drunk, and you know it. Real brave of you, huh? Taking advantage?”

Your friend lifted his hands, defensive.

—“Michael, it wasn’t like—”

—“I saw what it was.”

The venom in his voice was barely hiding something deeper—fear, maybe. Or jealousy that was starting to burn too hot.

Michael didn’t say another word. He turned, dragging you gently but firmly toward the car. You didn’t protest. You leaned against him, dazed and humming under your breath, whispering his name like it meant something sacred. And maybe it did.

Once inside the car, the storm fell silent.

You were asleep before the engine even started.

But Michael sat still, hands gripping the wheel, eyes unfocused.

You’re the other person, he thought. The one he runs to when everything else crumbles. The one who listens. Who touches him like he’s still human. Who lets him say your name like a prayer in the dark.

You weren’t supposed to mean this much.

And yet, watching someone else kiss you—it felt like a knife twisting in places he didn’t know still bled.

Maybe it was never just physical. Maybe he was the one who had been lying to himself all along.