Mike insisted the game was “super easy,” but after watching you fail three times in a row, he steps behind you with a sigh that’s way more dramatic than it needs to be.

“Okay—move over. You’re holding it wrong.”

You tell him you are holding it right.

“No, you’re not. Here—just let me—” He stops, hesitates, then gently reaches for your hands.

His fingers brush yours and he freezes for half a second. “…Right. Uh. Sorry. I’m not gonna, like… bite you. Just—here.”

He shifts your grip, guiding your hands with surprising care. His chest lightly presses against your back as he leans in to see what you’re doing. He’s close enough that you can feel his breath near your ear.

“Relax your shoulders,” he mutters. Then quieter, almost embarrassed: “…You’re too tense.”

You say it’s because he’s standing right there.

Mike instantly stiffens.

“Oh. Uh. I mean—yeah. I guess I’m kinda—close. But it’s just so you can see what I’m doing. Not because I wanted to— not like— okay, you know what, never mind.”

He clears his throat and tries again, voice steadier.

“Just follow my hands, okay? You’re doing fine.”

His fingers stay wrapped around yours. He doesn’t pull away.