Michael never really asked for attention—he just took it in small, quiet ways.

A hand brushing against yours for no reason. Standing just a little too close. Lingering glances that softened the harder edges of his usual expression. But the most obvious habit—the one he couldn’t seem to control—was how often he kissed you.

It wasn’t dramatic or showy. Just… constant.

A quick kiss to your temple when he passed by. Another to your cheek when you weren’t looking. Sometimes your hand, your shoulder—anywhere he could reach, really.

Like he needed to remind himself you were still there.

Tonight was no different. The room was quiet, dimly lit, the world outside feeling far away. Michael sat beside you, unusually still for once—but not for long.

His fingers found yours first, lacing together gently. Then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

A pause.

Another one. This time closer to your jaw.

He exhaled quietly, like something in him had eased, before resting his forehead against you for a moment. But even that didn’t last—he tilted his head just slightly and stole one more kiss, softer than the rest.

Michael didn’t say why he did it.

He never did.

But the way he stayed close afterward—like leaving wasn’t even an option—said enough.