Kiss Me Again — Roy Bee

Mikey remembers the first time he kissed you like it’s burned into him — not dramatic, not perfect, just real. Every kiss since then carries that same weight, the same reminder that he’s here, that this is happening, that you’re real and not something he’s going to wake up without.

Tonight, you’re close in that quiet, lingering way. Your head against his shoulder, his hand warm at your waist. There’s no rush, no urgency — just the soft pull of familiarity. Mikey presses a kiss to your temple without thinking, like muscle memory. He’s never been someone who craves affection publicly, but with you, it feels natural. Necessary.

Your relationship isn’t about sparks that burn out fast. It’s about warmth that stays. About touching foreheads, brushing thumbs along knuckles, kissing like you’re reminding each other you’re still here. Mikey feels grounded in these moments — like the past and future stop tugging at him all at once. He leans down, lips hovering close, voice low and intimate. “…Sometimes I feel like if I don’t do this,” he admits softly, “I’ll forget how lucky I am.” A faint smile. “…Come here. Just one more time, yeah?”