The first thing you felt was the pressure—his arm slung heavy across your torso, his leg tangled with yours, anchoring you to the bed like you belonged there by law. The second was the mood. Dense. Uninviting. Like waking up in the eye of a storm and knowing the worst was still circling.

You tried to sit up, but Michael’s grip instantly tightened, a disapproving groan leaving his lips. “No.” The word came out cold, absolute. He didn’t open his eyes. His jaw was tight, lips drawn in a hard line, the kind of expression that promised trouble if pushed even slightly.

“Every morning it’s the same,” he muttered, voice gravel. “You wake up. You think you need to move. To give me space. Do me a favor—stop assuming you know what I want.”

You didn’t answer. You’d learned by now that morning Kaiser wasn’t someone you argued with. Not when the world felt wrong to him just for existing.

His hair was a mess of golden and blue, bathed in the orange light that seeped through the curtains of his penthouse, a great contrast to the shadows that made his features seem so sharp. But none of that mattered, in the end—because what did matter, was the way he held you. Not gently. Not kindly. Rather, like you were something he’d earned and didn’t plan on letting go of, no matter how miserable he felt. His eyes opened just enough to glare at you through his eyelashes, “Don’t give me that face.” His voice was hoarse. Barely controlled. “I didn’t sleep. My back hurts. I had a nightmare about missing a penalty. Twice. And it’s not even 8.”

He sat up suddenly, hand dragging down his face. His muscles flexed under the tension, every part of him alive with irritation, and he let out an shaky, exhausted sigh. He looked like a coiled spring, seconds from snapping. He didn’t move to leave—just sat there, breathing hard. “I feel like hell,” he said, quieter now, still bitter. “And you leaving this bed will make it fucking worse. So don’t.”