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The Gravity of Silence

The following morning, the sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains of Michael’s bedroom was far too bright for his liking. He shifted, the heavy duvet rustling as he tightened his hold on Mimi. She was a warm, steady weight against his chest, her long brown hair fanned out across his arm like a silk tapestry. For a few blissful moments, the world outside the four walls of his apartment didn't exist. There were no training schedules, no tactical briefings, and certainly no cheeky teammates with too much energy.

Michael pressed his face into the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—something soft and floral that always seemed to linger on his pillows long after she left. He felt her stir, a small sigh escaping her lips as she snuggled closer into the crook of his neck.

"Morning," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

"Stay," Michael grunted, his voice even deeper and raspier than usual. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to share her with the day.

Mimi chuckled, a vibration he felt against his ribs. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes squinting against the light. "You have training, Michael. Vincent will have your head if you’re late again."

"Let him," Michael muttered, though they both knew he was one of the most dedicated players on the squad. He just liked the idea of being stubborn. He liked the way she looked at him when he was being difficult—that mixture of exasperation and affection that made him feel like the center of her universe.

He watched her as she sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist. She looked so small in the vastness of his bed, her petite frame almost delicate compared to the muscular build he worked so hard to maintain. It ignited that protective, possessive spark in his chest again. It was the same spark that had flared up yesterday at the Allianz when Désiré had been standing just a little too close.

"I'm going to make coffee," she said, leaning over to press a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek.

Before she could pull away, Michael’s hand shot out, catching her by the nape of her neck. He pulled her back down, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was anything but quick. It was slow, deliberate, and tasted of the lingering intimacy of the night before. He wanted to mark her, to remind her—and himself—exactly who she belonged to before the noise of the world rushed back in.

"Michael," she breathed against his lips, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. "Coffee. Then you have to go."

"Five more minutes," he whispered, nipping at her lower lip.

"You said that ten minutes ago."

He finally let her go, watching with hooded eyes as she hopped out of bed and threw on one of his white t-shirts. It hung halfway down her thighs, the sleeves swallowing her arms. She looked perfect in his clothes, a walking claim of his territory.

By the time Michael made it to the kitchen, the smell of fresh espresso filled the air. Mimi was standing by the counter, humming a tune he didn't recognize. She looked peaceful. He walked up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her back against him. He rested his chin on her shoulder, watching her pour the milk.

"Dez messaged me," she said casually, reaching for her phone on the counter.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. Michael’s grip on her waist tightened, his jaw tensing. "What does he want?"

Mimi ignored the edge in his voice, scrolling through the screen. "He sent a meme about your face yesterday when he asked me to play Mario Kart. He says you look like a grumpy cat." She turned in his arms, showing him the screen with a mischievous grin. "Look, he even side-by-sided it."

Michael didn't look at the phone. He looked at her. "He needs to focus on his finishing, not making memes."

"Oh, come on, it’s funny," Mimi laughed, tucking the phone away. "He’s just teasing you because he knows it works. You’re so easy to wind up."

"I'm not easy to wind up," Michael lied, his voice dropping an octave. "I just don't see why he thinks he needs to talk to you every five minutes."

Mimi sighed, setting the coffee mugs down. She took a step closer, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Michael, look at me. He’s a kid. He’s new to the city, he’s young, and he thinks we’re cool. Well, he thinks I’m cool. He thinks you’re a 'grumpy old man' buried in a twenty-something’s body."

"I'm twenty-two," Michael pointed out, his brow furrowing.

"Exactly. But you act like a Victorian widower sometimes." She stood on her tiptoes, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Stop being jealous. It’s beneath you."

"It’s not jealousy," he insisted, though the way he looked at her told a different story. "It’s... preference. I prefer it when people know their place."

"And what is his place?"

"Far away from you."

Mimi rolled her eyes, but there was a softness in her expression. She knew that Michael’s silence was often mistaken for arrogance, and his possessiveness for coldness, but she saw the truth. He was a man of few words who felt things with a terrifying intensity. He didn't know how to share because, for most of his life, he had been focused solely on the ball at his feet. Now that he had her, he guarded her with the same ferocity he guarded his private life.

"I have to go to the grocery store today," she said, changing the subject to ease the tension. "Do you want anything specific for dinner?"

"You're coming to the training ground after?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"I wasn't planning on it. I have some work to catch up on."

Michael’s expression flattened. "Désiré said the team is going out for a quick lunch after practice. He asked if you were coming."

Mimi paused, her hand hovering over her coffee mug. "He didn't mention that to me. But if the whole team is going..."

"No," Michael said, his voice sharp.

"Michael—"

"I don't want to go to a team lunch and watch him try to entertain you for two hours," he said, finally admitting the truth. He stepped away, grabbing his kit bag from the chair. "I'll see you at home."

He didn't kiss her goodbye. He just turned and walked out the door, the heavy thud of the lock echoing in the quiet apartment.

Mimi stood in the kitchen, feeling the sudden chill of his absence. She loved him, but his moods were like a labyrinth she was still learning to navigate. She knew he wasn't angry at her—he was angry at the feeling of not being enough to keep her entire focus, even though he knew he was.

The day dragged on. Mimi tried to work, but her mind kept drifting back to the look in Michael’s eyes before he left. She knew the team environment; it was full of banter, ego, and constant noise. Michael, who preferred the quiet, often felt like he had to compete for her attention in those spaces, even when he didn't have to.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, Mimi made a decision. She didn't go to the grocery store. Instead, she headed to the Sabener Strasse.

When she arrived at the training facility, the session was just ending. She stood by the fence, her long hair whipping in the light breeze. She spotted Michael immediately. He was standing alone near the center circle, practicing long-range pings into a small net. His focus was terrifying. Every strike was clean, every movement calculated.

"Mimi! You came!"

She turned to see Désiré jogging toward her, a wide, sweaty grin on his face. He looked like he’d had the time of his life, despite the grueling session.

"Hey, Dez," she said, offering a warm smile. "How was practice?"

"Hard. The boss is a slave driver today," he panted, leaning against the fence. "Hey, are you coming to lunch? We’re going to that Italian place near the square. I told Michael he had to bring you."

Mimi glanced past him. Michael had stopped kicking. He was standing still, the ball trapped under his boot, watching them from across the pitch. Even from this distance, she could feel the heat of his gaze.

"I don't think so, Dez," Mimi said softly. "I actually came to pick Michael up. We have... plans."

Désiré’s eyebrows shot up. "Plans? Like, boring couple plans? Or like, 'Michael is being a jealous Frenchman' plans?"

Mimi laughed, despite herself. "A bit of both, maybe."

"He’s so lucky you put up with him," Désiré joked, waving a hand toward Michael. "Hey, Olise! Stop staring! She’s not going anywhere!"

Michael didn't wave back. He just started walking toward them, his pace slow and deliberate. When he reached the fence, he didn't even acknowledge Désiré. He just looked at Mimi, his eyes searching hers.

"You came," he said, his voice low.

"I changed my mind," she replied. "I thought you might need a ride."

"He needs a mood adjustment," Désiré chimed in, slapping Michael on the shoulder. Michael flinched slightly but didn't snap. "We’re going to lunch, man. You coming?"

"No," Michael said, his eyes never leaving Mimi’s. "We’re going home."

Désiré sighed, dramatically throwing his hands up. "Fine. Be a hermit. See you tomorrow, Mimi! Don't let him bore you to death!"

As Désiré headed toward the locker rooms, Michael finally reached out, his hand threading through the links of the fence to touch Mimi’s fingers. The tension in his face hadn't fully dissipated, but the sight of her there, waiting for him specifically, had clearly done something to soften the edges.

"Give me ten minutes to shower," he said.

"Take your time. I'll be at the car."

Ten minutes turned into fifteen, and when Michael finally emerged from the building, he looked refreshed but still quiet. He climbed into the passenger seat of her small car, his large frame making the interior feel even more cramped.

The drive home was quiet, but it wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the morning. It was expectant. Michael kept his hand on the back of her neck, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin behind her ear as she drove. He didn't say a word about Désiré, and neither did she.

The moment they walked through the door of the apartment, Michael didn't even let her put her keys down. He caught her by the waist, spinning her around and pinning her against the closed door. His mouth was on hers instantly, hard and demanding.

Mimi let out a small gasp, her hands flying up to his chest to steady herself. This wasn't the gentle Michael from the morning. This was the Michael who had spent all day stewing in his own head, watching his teammate flirt with his girl, and finally having her all to himself.

"Michael," she whispered against his lips, breathless.

"Shut up," he breathed, his kisses moving down to her jaw, then her throat. "Just... stay here."

"I am here," she said, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "I'm right here."

She knew what he needed. He didn't need words or logic; he needed the physical proof that he was the only one who could make her pulse race like this. Mimi shifted, her hands moving to cup his face, forcing him to look at her.

"You are so incredibly frustrating," she whispered.

"I know."

"And you're a jealous idiot."

"I know that, too."

Mimi smiled, her eyes softening. She began to pepper his face with kisses, just like she had the night before. She kissed his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the corners of his mouth. Each kiss was a silent reassurance, a way of erasing the image of her laughing with anyone else.

"I went to the pitch for you," she said between kisses. "I told Dez no for you. It’s always you, Michael. Do you hear me?"

Michael let out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead dropping onto her shoulder. The fight seemed to leak out of him all at once. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her so tight she could feel the thud of his heart against her own.

"I hate it," he admitted, his voice muffled. "I hate how much I care about it."

"Then let me make you forget," she whispered.

She pulled back, taking his hand and leading him toward the living room sofa. She sat down, pulling him down with her, and immediately began to work on the buttons of his polo shirt. Michael watched her, his dark eyes filled with a raw, naked hunger that only she ever saw.

As she leaned in to kiss him again, Mimi made sure to be thorough. She used her hands, her lips, her entire being to remind him that he was her world. She kissed the hollow of his throat, the tops of his shoulders, the skin just above his heart. She felt him relax under her touch, his hands moving from her waist to her hair, holding her close.

Hours later, the sun had set, and the apartment was bathed in the soft glow of the city lights. They were tangled together on the sofa, a discarded blanket draped over their legs. Michael was quiet, but it was the quiet of a man who was finally at peace.

"Better?" Mimi asked, her head resting on his chest.

Michael shifted, his arm tightening around her. He looked down at her, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips. It was a rare sight, one he reserved only for the most private moments.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Much better."

"Good," she said, yawning. "Because if I have to kiss the jealousy out of you one more time today, I might actually pass out from exhaustion."

Michael chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her. He leaned down, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her forehead. "I'll try to behave tomorrow."

"You're lying."

"Probably," he admitted, his eyes glinting with a bit of his usual mischief. "But at least the makeup sessions are worth it."

Mimi swatted his chest playfully, but she didn't move. She stayed right there, wrapped in his arms, knowing that tomorrow would probably bring more jokes from Désiré and more dark looks from Michael. But as long as they had this—this quiet, fierce connection that belonged to no one else—she knew they would be just fine.

Michael Olise might be a man of few words, but in the silence of their home, he said everything she ever needed to hear. And in return, she would keep kissing him until the rest of the world faded into nothing but a distant, unimportant noise.