synopsis: cozy nights, oversized jumpers, and a chess game neither of you care about winning anymore.
warnings: michael olise x reader, fluff, established relationship, mentions of an old anxious habit (nothing graphic/detailed), kissing (nothing explicit)
author's note: i'm on a roll idk listen and i also LOVE chess and you’ll notice oversized jumpers as well
The board sat between you on the coffee table, pieces set up with more care than either of you probably needed for what was supposed to be yet another beginner's lesson. You were curled up on the floor cushion across from Michael, wearing his sweater again, sleeves pushed up messily to your elbows, a pair of glasses perched on your nose that you only ever wore on lazy nights in. Your hair had long since given up any pretense of being styled, a loose knot falling apart at the back of your head, and your legs were tucked under you in thick white fuzzy socks that bunched at your ankles.
"Right," Michael said, tapping one of the pawns lightly. "This one moves forward. One square, unless it's the first move, then it can go two."
"I know what a pawn does, Michael."
He fought a smile, nudging his knight forward instead, watching you with far more patience than you probably deserved for the confidence you were projecting. You studied the board like it owed you something personal, nose scrunching slightly as you thought, bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration.
He'd never admit out loud how much he liked that face.
"If I move here," you murmured, mostly to yourself, finger hovering over one of your pieces, "does that... no. Wait."
"I am taking my time. You're staring."
"I'm supervising, ain't I."
He didn't deny it this time, just let his eyes stay exactly where they'd been the whole match, on you rather than the board, on the little furrow between your eyebrows and the way you chewed your lip like the fate of the game actually hung on this one decision. He had been playing since he was young enough that the rules were closer to instinct than thought now, and he could've ended the game four moves back if he'd wanted to.
He didn't want to. Not yet. Watching you think was better than winning.
"Right." You finally moved a piece, glancing up at him for approval like he was about to award you a medal. "How was that?"
"For a beginner, that's proper good."
You narrowed your eyes at him, unconvinced by the diplomacy in his tone, and he simply reached over the board and pressed a quick kiss to the scrunch still lingering between your eyebrows before you could protest.
"You do this face." He tapped gently between your brows. "Every time you're thinking too hard."
"You've got loads of faces. That one's my favourite."
You flushed slightly, ducking your head back toward the board like that would hide it, and he took the opportunity to study you properly, this whole soft, unguarded version of you that only ever came out on nights like this, tucked under blankets with your glasses slipping slightly down your nose, oversized and cozy and entirely his in a way that occasionally still felt too good to be real.
The game went on slowly, him nudging you gently in the right direction whenever you got stuck, careful never to make it feel like he was doing your thinking for you. Every time you scrunched your nose over a decision, he found some excuse to lean over and kiss your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth, until you finally set your king down mid-thought just to swat lightly at his arm.
"I'm being affectionate, baby."
"You've kissed me four times in the last ten minutes."
"Five." He said it far too proudly for someone claiming not to be doing it on purpose.
Eventually you managed to actually capture one of his pieces, a small triumphant gasp escaping you as you swept his bishop off the board and held it up like a trophy.
"Don't sound so unbothered. This is huge."
"I'm well bothered, me." He said it in the exact same flat tone as everything else, and you narrowed your eyes at him.
"Human error. Happens to the best of us."
"You've been playing since you were seven."
"Even legends have off days."
You threw the bishop lightly at his chest, and he caught it without even really looking, setting it down beside the board with the same infuriating calm he'd had all evening. It only made you more determined to actually beat him properly, and you hunched back over the board with renewed focus, muttering strategy under your breath that made absolutely no sense to anyone, including yourself.
"You're talking to the pieces now."
"I'm strategizing out loud. Legitimate technique."
"Grandmasters do it all the time."
He watched you lean further over the board, glasses sliding another half inch down your nose, sweater paws bracing against the coffee table as you squinted at the pieces like they might rearrange themselves if you glared hard enough. The fuzzy socks had ridden up slightly around your ankles, one leg tucked under you and the other stretched out toward him, toes occasionally nudging his knee whenever you shifted.
"If you move your queen there," he said eventually, unable to help himself, "you'd actually have me in a bit of trouble."
You did, slow and suspicious like it might be a trap, and when he genuinely had to think about his next move for the first time all evening, you nearly knocked the board over with how excitedly you sat up.
"You moved one piece correctly, babe."
He laughed, properly this time, head tipping back against the couch behind him. "Alright. You're good at chess."
"For someone who learned the rules forty minutes ago."
You settled back, thoroughly pleased with yourself, reaching for the mug of tea that had long since gone lukewarm beside you, and he took the opportunity to just watch you again, the small satisfied smile still tugging at your mouth, hair falling loose around your face, his sweater around you like you'd been made to live in it.
"D'you know," he said, quiet now, "I could've finished this ten minutes ago."
"You're not subtle, Michael." You peered at him over the rim of your mug. "You get this face when you're holding back. Like you're trying dead hard not to smile."
"You've got loads. That one's just as good as the thinking one."
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, and reached over to gently straighten your glasses where they'd slipped too far down your nose, fingers lingering against your cheek a moment longer than the task really required.
"Why don't you just win, then?" you asked, softer.
"Because you pull that face." He tapped lightly between your eyebrows again. "And you get excited over every little thing you do right. And it's slower this way. I like slow, with you."
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity slipped in between all the teasing, and felt your own smile go a little softer in response.
"That's disgustingly sweet for someone who's been sandbagging me at chess for forty minutes. You're ridiculous."
You reached up to shove your glasses back into place, only for them to slip straight back down the second you leaned forward, and you huffed out loud, yanking them off entirely and dropping them onto the coffee table with more force than the moment probably warranted.
"They keep sliding," you muttered, like the glasses had personally wronged you.
"They're being difficult."
"Same thing, that." You threw his own line back at him, and he grinned properly, reaching out to catch your wrist before you could pick the glasses back up, tugging you forward across the small space between you until you toppled half into his lap, board forgotten, pieces wobbling dangerously close to scattering.
He didn't seem to mind the chaos in the slightest, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your temple first, slow, then your cheekbone, then finally your mouth properly, unhurried in the same way the whole evening had been.
"We never finished the game," you mumbled against his lips.
"We're not finishing it. I'm still not losing."
"I'm just very good at chess. There's a difference."
He kissed you again before you could argue further, slower this time, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw while the other stayed firm at your waist, steadying you where you'd curled into his lap. You melted into it easily, feeling the warmth of his palm settle against your skin, the faint smell of the tea still on his breath, the soft worn cotton of his sweater bunching wherever your bodies pressed close. Without really thinking about it, your fingers found the hem of that same sweater where it sat against your own stomach, bunching the fabric loosely into your fist.
It was an old habit, one that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with years further back than either of you liked to think about too closely, something your hands had learned to do long before he'd ever come into the picture. He'd noticed early on, never pushed for the why of it, just quietly made a point of always making sure there was something soft nearby for you to hold onto whenever things got tender like this.
He smiled against your mouth. "You're doing the thing again."
"This." He nudged his chin gently toward your hand, the sweater fabric twisted and gathered in your grip. "Always grabbing at my jumper when we're close like this."
"You do, baby. " He kissed you again before you could argue further, unhurried, his thumb tracing slow along your jaw. "It's cute, though."
You huffed, but the protest died somewhere in the next kiss, slower than the last, his mouth moving against yours with an easy patience that made your whole body feel loose and warm. He tilted his head slightly, deepening it just barely, tongue brushing lightly against your bottom lip before retreating just as slowly, savoring rather than rushing. You felt more than heard the low, quiet breath he let out when your fingers tightened again in the fabric of his sweater without you meaning to.
Neither of you rushed anything. His hand slid from your jaw down along the side of your neck, fingers curling gently at the nape, tangling loosely into the messy knot of your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head the way he wanted. Without your glasses in the way, he could properly cup your face now, thumb tracing slow along your cheekbone, and when he pulled back for the smallest breath, he brushed the tip of his nose against yours, slow and deliberate, a small private gesture that had nothing to do with kissing and everything to do with just being close to you.
You felt your own breath catch slightly at that, more than you had at the kiss itself.
He did it again, nudging his nose lightly against yours before leaning back in, mouth finding yours slower this time, deeper, one hand splayed warm against your back to keep you steady against him. The kiss unfolded lazily, unhurried in a way that made every second stretch, his mouth soft and patient against yours, tasting faintly of the tea, warm breath mingling in the small space between you. You sighed into it, and he swallowed the sound easily, content to let it drag out slow and thorough with nowhere else to be.
Your grip on his sweater tightened again, entirely without your permission, and he broke the kiss just enough to look at you, something fond and slightly overwhelmed behind his eyes, your face bare and soft and close without the glasses to hide behind. He didn't say anything about the white of your knuckles this time either, his free hand coming up to gently pry your fingers loose from the fabric, not to stop you, just to lace his own fingers through yours instead, holding your hand flat against his chest where he wanted it. You could feel his heartbeat there, a little quicker than it should have been for two people just sitting quietly on the floor.
"Better?" he murmured against your lips.
He nudged his nose against yours again, slower this time, lingering there for a long moment before finally closing the last inch, mouth moving against yours unhurried and deep, like he had all the time left in the world and intended to use every second of it on exactly this, and no reason at all to rush any part of it.
You lost track of time somewhere in the middle of it, the two of you tangled together on the floor, the lamp casting everything in a low gold light that made the whole room feel smaller and warmer than it actually was. His mouth found yours again and again, never once rushing, each kiss a little slower than the last, like he was determined to memorize the shape of this exact moment before letting it go. Your lips had gone warm under his, red and swollen by the time he finally eased back, and he brushed his thumb gently over your bottom lip like he was checking, pleased with what he found there.
Your hand stayed fisted in his sweater the entire time, tucked between your bodies, and every so often he’d glance down at it without breaking the kiss, something soft crossing his face before he pulled you impossibly closer, like the sight of your fingers curled so tightly into his jumper did something to him he didn’t quite have words for.
“You’re gripping proper hard,” he murmured eventually, lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.
“Didn’t say stop.” His hand came up to cover yours again, thumb tracing gently over your knuckles where they’d gone pale with how tightly you were holding on. “Just noticed.”
“I know.” He said it simply, no judgment in it at all, just quiet acknowledgment, and pressed a slow kiss to your temple instead of pushing further, letting the moment breathe. “You can hold on as tight as you need. Not going anywhere.”
Something in your chest loosened at that, some small anxious knot you hadn't even realized you were carrying, warm and unexpected, and the words slipped out before you'd properly decided to say them.
Too still. The seconds stretched, his eyes wide and fixed on yours, and the longer it went on the more the warmth in your chest started curdling into something colder, faster. Your grip on his sweater went white-knuckled, near-painful, your whole body already bracing.
The truth was, he'd been planning to say it tonight. Had the whole evening half arranged around it, actually, the chess just an excuse to keep you close and unhurried until he found the nerve. He hadn't expected you to get there first, and now his mind had gone completely, stupidly blank.
"Sorry, forget I said that," you rushed out, already pulling back slightly, eyes dropping to somewhere safer than his face. "That was too soon, I didn't mean to just... you don't have to say anything, it's fine, honestly."
You'd barely turned your shoulder away when his fingers hooked around your free hand, tugging you right back. "You love me?" he said finally, quiet, like he was still catching up to the last thirty seconds. "Yeah?"
You looked down at your lap instead of answering. It was easier than his face.
"This," you said quietly, tugging the fabric slightly, glancing down at your own fist still curled loose in his sweater. "I've done this since before I can remember. Never really trusted my hands to stay still around people, so normally I keep them busy somewhere else, out of sight, gripping the fabric of my pockets or sleeves or whatever, anything so no one clocks it. I don't do that with you, though. Don't hide it. I just reach for you instead, and let you see."
"That's the closest I've got to explaining it. I don't know how else to say it without sounding stupid."
He didn't answer right away.
Instead he kissed you, slow and deep, for what felt like the hundredth time that night, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were something worth being careful with. You melted into it despite yourself, still half braced for something, until he finally pulled back just enough to speak against your mouth.
"I love you." Quiet, sure, no performance to it. "Been trying to work out how to say that for weeks now. Kept losing my nerve." A short, disbelieving laugh. "Explains the chess, I suppose. Wasn't really about the chess."
"Mr. Nonchalant losing his nerve? You could've just told me instead of losing on purpose."
"Could've." He kissed your cheek, "Wasn't brave enough."
He covered your hand with his own, steady, patient, letting you hold on for as long as you needed, and neither of you moved for a long while after that.
The lamp burned low, the chessboard sat forgotten with its pieces knocked slightly out of place, and eventually he pulled you properly into his lap instead of just half against him, settling you there like he intended to stay exactly this way for the rest of the night. You didn't argue.
The tea went colder. The evening stretched on quiet and unhurried around you both, his hand never once letting go of yours, and neither of you found a single reason to move.
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