One more chance at love
Slow mornings with Michael felt unreal, the kind you never wanted to wake up from. Sunlight poured through the massive windows beside the bed, spilling warm gold across your bare skin. The sheets were impossibly soft, the oversized white bed feeling less like furniture and more like resting inside a cloud suspended above the city. And beside you was him. Half asleep, one arm draped lazily around your waist, large hands wandering over your body with absent-minded tenderness, as though touching you had already become instinct. His lips brushed softly against your shoulder again and again, careful not to wake you, while a quiet melody hummed low in his chest.
You shifted slightly, and immediately he noticed. His eyes opened slowly, warm and heavy with sleep, and a smile spread across his face the second he saw you looking at him.
“Good morning, princess,” he whispered. The nickname alone made you laugh softly. You turned toward him, brushing your nose against his before murmuring, “Good morning, Mikey.” He kissed you then — small and sweet, barely there — the kind of kiss that somehow felt more intimate than anything else. When he started to pull away and sit up, you wrapped your arms around him and tugged him back down beside you.
“Don’t,” you murmured. “I wanna stay in bed all day with you.” He chuckled under his breath, glancing toward the clock on the bedside table.
“Baby, it’s already eleven thirty,” he said, smiling. “I was just gonna tell the service to make us breakfast. Then we can be lazy wherever you want.”
He settled back against the pillows completely, and you climbed onto his lap without thinking, your bare thighs brushing against him. He inhaled sharply at the sudden warmth between you, his hands instinctively tightening at your hips while a crooked grin appeared on his face.
You kissed him again, this time slower, deeper.
“Fine,” you whispered against his lips. “But after breakfast we’re continuing exactly where we left off last night.”
Michael laughed softly, fingertips gliding up your thighs.
“You mean four hours ago?” he teased. “Pretty sure that was already morning.”
His eyes flickered over your face with that look — affectionate, amused, completely ruined for you and said “You’re insatiable.”
“One hundred percent your fault.”
“That’s true,” he admitted proudly.
He stole one last kiss before carefully moving you off his lap and climbing out of bed, pulling on the pants you threw rough at the floor last night, and you watched him disappear into the hallway, sunlight following after him. So you stretched lazily across the bed for another second, breathing in the warmth he’d left behind on the sheets, before finally deciding to follow him. The moment your feet touched the floor, you realized just how destroyed the room still was from the night before, clothes were scattered absolutely everywhere. You smiled to yourself as you wandered through the suite, picking up little traces of the two of you along the way. First your mini skirt near the armchair by the window. Then your bra tossed carelessly beside the couch. A single heel overturned near the bed.
And then you found Michael’s white dress shirt — the expensive one he’d worn to the restaurant the night before.
The memory hit instantly: his hand on your lower back guiding you through the lobby, the way he’d loosened his tie halfway through dinner because you kept staring at him, the look on his face when you kissed him in the elevator before the doors had even fully closed.
You slipped the shirt on without thinking. It swallowed you completely, sleeves hanging past your hands, carrying his cologne and the faint trace of champagne from the night before.
Making your way toward the bathroom attached to the bedroom, you laughed softly at the state of the suite.
Two half-finished champagne glasses sat abandoned on the floor near the fireplace, completely forgotten. The record player was still spinning quietly in the corner, the vinyl long finished, leaving behind that soft static white noise the two of you had fallen asleep to sometime near dawn.
The entire room looked beautifully wrecked.
When you finally made your way downstairs, the smell hit you immediately. Fresh coffee. Warm butter. Sweet baked pastries straight from the oven, the entire room smelled soft and comforting, like Sunday morning. Michael was already sitting at the kitchen table waiting for you, sleeves rolled up casually, hair still messy from sleep. And in his hands was a single flower. The sight alone made heat rush to your cheeks. The second he noticed you blushing, his entire face lit up with satisfaction, smiling so hard it almost made you laugh.
“There she is,” he murmured. You walked toward him slowly, still wearing his white shirt, and he looked at you like you were something unreal.
Even after almost a year together, you still hadn’t gotten used to this kind of treatment. The flowers. The doors held open for you. His hand always guiding you through crowds. The way he remembered every tiny thing you mentioned once in passing. The way he treated you like someone precious instead of temporary.
Men your age had never loved like this. Most of them barely knew how to slow down long enough to notice someone properly, let alone care for them. But Michael — with twenty more years of life behind him — carried this quiet, old-fashioned tenderness that made everything feel intentional.
Like romance had been practiced into him over decades, and that intimidated you sometimes but also made you love him more.
Michael reached for your hand the second you got close enough, pulling you gently between his knees.
“You stole my shirt again,” he said softly.
You smiled. “Maybe.” and kissed him again. Breakfast with Michael always felt strangely intimate. The way he filled your coffee exactly how you liked it without asking, the way his hand rested absentmindedly on your thigh beneath the table. The way he looked at you while you talked, like nothing else in the room could possibly deserve his attention more.
It felt so domestic and loving, something you could accidentally get addicted to forever. When you finished eating, Michael leaned back slightly in his chair, still holding your hand loosely in his.
“Would you like me to run us a bath, sweetheart?” he asked softly.
You nodded immediately, unable to hide your smile.
“Yeah.”
His expression warmed instantly at your enthusiasm.
“C’mon then.”
He stood and guided you upstairs with his hand intertwined in yours, fingers brushing lazily against your knuckles the entire way back to the bedroom suite.
Once inside, Michael crossed the room toward the record player first, carefully placing the needle down onto another vinyl. Soft jazz immediately filled the space, low and warm, blending perfectly with the muted sunlight pouring through the windows.
Then he disappeared into the bathroom.
You watched him lean over the enormous marble tub, turning the gold handles slowly until steaming water began cascading into the jacuzzi. He poured bath oils into the water without even measuring, lit two candles near the edge of the tub, and dimmed the lights until the entire room glowed amber and soft.
Then you entered the bathroom and Michael’s hands were already on your waist, pulling you against him with quiet urgency. He kissed you deeply, slowly at first, like he wanted to savor you, before the kiss grew heavier with want. His fingers slid beneath his white shirt you were wearing, warm palms gliding over your skin while your hands rested against his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath them.
Without breaking the kiss completely, he started to unbutton the shirt, one button at a time. The fabric loosened little by little, exposing more of your skin to the warm golden light of the bathroom.
When the last button finally came undone, Michael paused. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. Then, carefully, almost reverently, he opened the shirt fully and let it slip down your shoulders, the white fabric falling slowly along your arms until it pooled at your wrists.
His eyes traveled over you with complete devotion, like he was still incapable of understanding how someone like you could possibly be real.
A soft sound escaped him — somewhere between a breath and a quiet groan of admiration — and his hands tightened instinctively at your waist as he looked at you.
Months together hadn’t changed that reaction. If anything, it had only made it worse. Because Michael still looked at you with the same disbelief he had the first night he kissed you. Still seemed overwhelmed by the fact that he got to hold someone so beautiful, so sweet, so dangerously addictive in his arms.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured softly, eyes dark with affection as his fingertips brushed gently along your skin.
His hands moved to your breasts then, holding you with impossible tenderness. His thumbs traced softly over your skin while his gaze stayed fixed on you, completely ruined already.
Michael bent down slightly until his face was level with your chest, pressing slow kisses against your skin, unhurried and worshipful. Meanwhile, his hands slid lower, fingers hooking gently beneath your skirt before carefully pulling it down your legs.
The second it hit the floor, he paused. A laugh escaped him under his breath when he realized you weren’t wearing any underwear. He looked up at you immediately, amused disbelief all over his face as he shook his head slowly.
“Troublemaker,” he murmured.
You only smiled innocently.
“Maybe I planned this.”
“Oh, you absolutely did.”
He stood again, one hand settling against your jaw as he kissed you softly — slower this time, affectionate enough to make your chest ache. Then he helped you step carefully into the hot water of the jacuzzi, his hands steady on your waist while steam curled around both of you, the soft jazz still echoing quietly through the room.
The bath turned into something slow and intoxicating without either of you even trying. Steam wrapped around the room in soft waves while the jacuzzi hummed quietly beneath the water, the low jazz from the bedroom echoing through the open doorway. Michael sat behind you with one arm draped lazily across your waist, fingertips tracing absent patterns against your damp skin while you rested against his chest.
Every now and then his lips would brush your shoulder, your neck, the curve of your jaw.
Not rushed or demanding, just affectionate enough to make your entire body warm. You talked between kisses and quiet laughter, drifting from teasing each other to comfortable silence without noticing. At one point he started washing your hair for you, carefully working shampoo through it while you closed your eyes and melted completely against him.
“You’re spoiled, you know that?” he murmured softly.
“By you.”
“Exactly.”
He sounded far too pleased with himself about it. Eventually the water began cooling, the room no longer heavy with that sleepy morning haze but with the calm exhaustion that came after being adored for too long.
Michael pressed one final kiss against your temple before standing first and stepping out of the tub. He grabbed a large towel and wrapped it around your shoulders immediately the second you stood up, rubbing warmth back into your arms with his hands.
Then he pulled you gently against him, smiling down at you while damp curls clung messily to his forehead.
“C’mon, princess,” he said quietly. “Let’s get out of here”.
Back in the bedroom, the atmosphere had shifted into something softer again. The windows were open slightly now, letting cool afternoon air drift through the curtains while the record kept spinning quietly somewhere in the background.
You stood in front of the large mirror getting ready slowly, still warm from the bath. You rubbed expensive body cream into your skin, the scent of vanilla and amber filling the room little by little. After that came perfume — just a touch at your wrists and neck — the same one Michael always buried his face into whenever he hugged you.
Behind you, Michael was doing the exact opposite of slowly. He had thrown on a pair of dark sweatpants and a loose white shirt in less than two minutes, still towel-drying his hair while walking around the room distractedly.
You watched him through the mirror with amusement.
“What are you doing?” you laughed.
“I have an idea.”
He kissed your shoulder quickly in passing before suddenly making a beeline toward the writing desk near the windows, like if he didn’t sit down immediately the thought would disappear forever.
Within seconds, notebooks were open everywhere. Michael leaned over the desk, messy damp curls falling into his eyes while he scribbled lyrics down almost faster than he could think them. Every few moments he’d stop, tap the pen against his mouth thoughtfully, hum a melody under his breath, then continue writing again.
Completely consumed by it, and that was one of your favorite versions of him to witness — inspired, comfortable, still smelling faintly like your perfume and bathwater while writing songs in the middle of a lazy afternoon because loving you had apparently put too many words in his head.
It took him barely ten minutes. You watched from the bed as he suddenly stopped writing mid-sentence, the pen freezing in his hand. Then he leaned back in the chair slowly, running a hand through his still-damp hair with that distant look he always got whenever he finished creating something.
Your eyes widened.
“Wait… just like that?” you laughed softly. “You were really inspired.”
Michael looked over at you, smiling almost shyly despite everything.
“I’ve been thinking about this since you fell asleep this morning,” he admitted. “Then again when we woke up. During breakfast. In the bath just now…”
He tapped the notebook lightly.
“It wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Your chest tightened immediately.
“Wanna hear it?” he asked quietly.
You nodded before he even finished the sentence, excitement all over your face.
Michael stood up from the desk and started singing softly as he walked toward you, his voice still rough from sleep, intimate in a way no stage performance could ever be.
"This time gonna do my best to make it right Can’t go on without you by my side Hold on Shelter Come and rescue me out of this storm And out of this cold I need someone Oh, why? If you see her, tell her this from me All I need is One more chance at love, one more chance at love…"
By the time he reached you, your vision had already blurred. Michael placed his hands gently on your waist and pulled you against him, holding you close while quiet tears slipped down your cheeks.
Not because you were sad, but because being loved like this felt almost unbearable sometimes.
“I love you so much, ma,” he whispered against your hair, arms tightening around you. “You’ve no idea.”
