#michael.ss

You tug just barely at his scalp to pull yourself away an inch in protest. "That's not true," you reply.

He takes offense to this, your words ringing like individual criticisms—a coordinated assault on someone as guarded as he, because that is what he is used to. It's reflexive to perceive your contradiction as an attack, even if what you're saying is supposed to be nice. He still doesn't comprehend the complexities of 'nice.'

So Michael's eyes narrow, too riddled with intensity on the precipice of vulnerability to wave you off like he might anyone else. False pride can't fully man the defenses when your gaze is the one that penetrates. Because, subconsciously, he knows that you will only see right through it.

He doesn't say anything, but your resolute expression doesn't waver either as he studies it, tests it. You are his most infuriating opponent. His most beloved.

"And pray tell, what is it you think is so sweet about me, mein Fräulein?" he asks with a peeved, challenging grin, already anticipating an answer that will crack underneath his pressure. "Do feel free to share."

You know his games and his goals, both within soccer and outside it. "I've never seen someone look sweeter in their sleep," you reply while smiling and smoothing back more of his hair with your loving hands, though still with just the right amount of roughness to remind him you are not so easily shaken.

He scoffs into a chuckle and shakes his head, looking up at you with a hint of pity. "And you think that counts? Good god, I think your brain has finally fallen out of your pretty little head." It's derogatory, a final attempt at maintaining his pride, at pretending like he is the one who knows better than you. It's accompanied by the wandering of his greedy hands along your sides and back, gripping your body with that same subtle restlessness.

"No," you double down, tender all the while. "You're sweet even when you don't know it—even when you don't mean to be." Your fingers are soothing in his hair, yet your voice makes his chest tighten a fraction when it mumbles against his forehead in a kiss. "Like when you tread carefully because you think I'm asleep, or when you say I've lost my pretty mind instead of telling me to fuck off like I know you really want to."

You smile down at him knowingly, with an air of absoluteness, but not malevolent in the slightest. It enrages him. It comforts him. Why are you such an impossible thing to conquer?

Michael's jaw flexes and the tension creeps into his brow, dragging his gaze away from yours and back down into your neck. He noses at the skin there, bubbling with frustration as his hands slow and the gears turning in his mind quicken.

He breathes against you, feeling himself losing the battle. But there's a small part of him that's eager to surrender as always.

"You aren't supposed to know so many things," he murmurs through gritted teeth.

Your grin widens and your thumb strokes the clench out of his jaw. "Oh, but I do, meine Liebe," you reassure him, pulling him back to look him in the eye. "I know you are so sweet." You place a kiss to his brow, his cheek—slowly, with care, to ensure he recognizes the sincerity while his face rests like a precious jewel in your palms. "And I know you are so full of love."

Your voice has lowered to nearly a whisper as you gently pull his head to your chest for the warmest of embraces, closing your eyes and hoping with everything in you that the love you have for him can be felt. You hope it radiates outward from your heart and into his skull enough to convince him that you are right, because even if there is nothing else you are certain of in this world, you are certain of this.

His cheek melts into the heat of your sternum as he listens to the steady thrum of your heart against his eardrum like a lullaby. He knows that rhythm and cherishes it more than any other song in the universe, because it slips into his bones and makes it seem as though it were destined to be there from the start. When your blood sings against his flesh, it feels as though there might really be a place for him in this world after all—one he doesn't have to fight for.

Michael deflates and exhales beneath your touch.

'No, you are full of love,' he thinks. 'You are.'

Though...

Perhaps he could be too. Since you will allow it.

He stays in place until his heartbeat syncs with yours, then finally looks back up at you with his devout resignation. "Only for you," he states.

You grin again, relishing in the blue sparkle of his eyes. "No, I think you have more than that," you say, pressing the tip of your nose to his. "But I won't complain about being first in line."

He accepts your lips with a temperance he didn't possess before, breathing you in through a slow, earnest kiss when you give it. He doesn't know how right you are about anything else, but he does know that you are, in fact, the very first in line—you will be until he draws his final breath.

And that is a battle he can't be entirely disappointed in himself for losing.