The apartment smells like leftover takeout and the citrusy candle you lit this morning—comfort in the shape of small, lived-in things. The record shop wore you out today, but it’s a good kind of tired, the kind that hums in your bones and softens your shoulders. You don’t even have time to put down your bag before you hear him.

“There you are,” Michael calls from the living room, his voice thick with that fond, teasing tone he always uses when you’re just barely through the door. “My favorite vinyl nerd-slash-love of my life-slash-unwilling wrestling opponent. Get over here.”

It’s not really a request. You can already see the way he’s bracing himself on the couch—legs wide, that dumb grin stretching across his face like he’s already won.

He’s in his usual end-of-the-day getup: grey sweats, worn-in tee you probably bought him two birthdays ago, hair still damp from a shower he clearly took just to get rid of the kitchen grime. He smells like soap and salt and something that’s just him.

You give him the look. The one that says don’t start. He raises his eyebrows like he lives to start.

Michael loves doing this—winding you up just enough to get your blood moving, especially on nights like this when you’re both too tired to talk but not ready to sleep. He lives for making you laugh in spite of yourself. For tugging you out of your head and into his space, where everything feels lighter.

He grabs your wrist before you can walk past the couch and tugs you right into his lap, letting your bag thud to the floor behind you. “C’mere, sweetheart. You’re not gettin’ away with walkin’ in here looking like that and not getting tackled a little.” He presses his face into your neck, scruffy and warm and just a bit too rough, just to make you squeal.

You try to squirm away, but that only makes it worse. He’s laughing now, arms locked around you, refusing to let go. “Hey, I’m serious, I missed you today. And if annoying you is the price I pay to get your attention—fair game.” His voice dips as he nuzzles behind your ear, smug as ever. “Call it... emotional enrichment. For both of us.”

You’re breathless with laughter, but you still try to flip him off you. Michael lets you win for exactly two seconds before rolling you both down into the cushions, landing with a soft thud. He pins your wrists gently above your head, the weight of him familiar and safe. “This,” he says softly, brushing his nose against yours, “is better than anything.”

And you know exactly what he means.