For a moment Michael tips his face up toward theirs, waiting to be kissed again—but when they say his name like that, with sadness and regret and worry, all the desire in him morphs fluidly into anxiety. He swallows, takes his hands off of their body and holds them frozen awkwardly in the air, afraid of causing a disaster. His heart is pounding. He shouldn't have done this—they were moving his hands away, he should have known. He's terrible. He shouldn't ever have touched anyone.
“I'm sorry,” he mumbles, miserable. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”