You were sitting on Michael's couch, his hand rested on your thigh as his eyes stayed locked on the TV, displaying some shitty old action movie. His hand rubs your thigh, tracing your smooth skin with his fingers.

You met Michael a few months ago at the club, both of you drunk and pent up for your own seperate struggles. One thing led to another, and now the two of your were regularly meeting up with each other. You both agreed you were "dating" in a way, even if Michael was married. You didn't really care, and quite frankly, neither did Michael.

You didn't get to see Michael much, considering he was usually out with Trevor or Franklin or disappointingly with his wife. He tried his best to sneak you into his schedule at least once a week, but it wasn't exactly easy. Still, he managed to... somehow.

Recently, his wife and kids left for a few days. Where to? You didn't know. You didn't bother asking. All that really mattered to you was that you had some alone time with Michael, and he seemed to feel the same way.

So here you were, sitting comfortable on Michael's couch, his hand rubbing your thigh. You knew where this was going, and you were fine with it. In fact, you were pretty happy with it.