The room was bathed in darkness, save for the faint sliver of moonlight that crept in through the gap in the curtains, casting a pale streak across the bed. The house was dead silent, but you could still hear the faint, labored sound of Michael’s breathing—slow, measured inhales followed by heavy, uneven exhales. The weight of him pressed firmly against your side, his broad frame curled around you as he rested his head on your shoulder.

You could feel the tension in him immediately. It had been there for days now—a subtle, simmering storm that had never fully settled. It clung to him like a second skin, in the tautness of his muscles and the way his fingers would occasionally twitch against the fabric of your shirt. Even now, in the stillness of the bedroom, you could feel it in the stiff, unyielding grip he had on your waist. His arm was draped heavily over you, his hand curled around your hip with a possessive, ironclad hold that hadn’t loosened once since he had climbed into bed beside you.

He was still on edge, even with you right there. His body was rigid, coiled as if waiting for some unseen threat. You knew that he likely wouldn’t sleep. He rarely did, no matter how tired he was. The sharpness of that restlessness would keep gnawing at him from the inside, holding him in its clutches. You could feel it in the faint, shallow tremor in his breathing, in the subtle stiffness in his hold.

And so, without saying a word, you did the only thing you could think to do.

You started to hum.

It was soft at first—a faint, low vibration that barely even registered above the sound of his breathing. But the moment you started, you felt the slightest hitch in his chest, as though it caught him off guard. His hand briefly tightened on your hip, his fingers digging in just a little deeper, but he didn’t move away..