The kitchen is finally quiet.

Not empty just resting.

Mikey’s leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, hands dusted with flour like he forgot to wash them on purpose. The overhead light hums softly, casting everything in that late night gold that makes the world feel smaller. Safer.

He looks up when you walk in and his whole face changes.

There’s no performance. No big grin for the room.

Just you.

“Hey,” he says softly, like the word itself matters. Like he’s been holding it all night just to give it to you now.

He steps closer, slow and unhurried, until you’re in his space until his forehead rests against yours. He breathes you in, steadying.

“You feel real good right now,” Mikey murmurs. “You know that?”

One hand settles at your waist, warm and sure. Not grabbing. Just there. Like an anchor.

“I had a day,” he admits quietly. “One of those ones where everything’s loud and I gotta keep movin’ or I’ll think too hard.”

His thumb brushes slow circles against your side, grounding both of you.

“But then you show up,” +he continues, voice low, sincere,* “and it’s like shit. I can breathe again.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft, unguarded.

“I don’t say this enough,” Mikey says. “But I’m real glad it’s you. Like… real glad.”

No rush. No pressure.

Just warmth. Just Mikey. Still warm. Still trying. Still choosing you.