Brain Chaos

You were a last resort. He didn’t mean to overbook himself, but he did, and now he’s desperately hoping you won’t turn down a few extra dollars.

You answer Mike’s frantic knocks with wide eyes. You still have your work uniform on, and Mike has to actively suppress his wince.

“I’m so sorry,” he feels Abby squeeze his hand, “I didn’t know who else would be available.”

Mike doesn’t even try to suppress his relieved sigh when you wave him off and usher Abby inside. You - albeit awkwardly - invite him in, but he’s already running late.

You ask when he’ll be back for Abby, but he doesn’t know, so he says, tonight, I’ll call you and speed-walks to his car; tail tucked so far between his legs that he almost feels like crying.

When he returns to your home, he thanks you with a check and assurances that it’s just a one-time thing, and he couldn’t think of anyone else who’d be willing, but you just smile and offer him some dinner leftovers.

Then, a man walks in with a paper plate wrapped in saran wrap, and Mike feels the hairs at the back of his neck stand. You introduce the man as your boyfriend, Mike shakes his hand, but he’s practically choking on the air of judgment surrounding Oliver.

So that’s how you can afford a place like this.

Abby sleeps on the drive home, and Mike thinks about you.

Mike met you at work; maiding for a cleaning company for rich snobs. He…didn’t mind the days he worked with you. The manager often paired the two of you together for large estate-wide projects.

You never complained when he needed to bring Abby to work. If anything, you seemed like you had more fun on days he brought his little sister.

You asked Abby questions about her interests and even shared some of your own. Mike even once caught you packing extra frosted Animal Crackers from the lobby.

Sometimes, Abby would drag Mike into games of three-person hide-and-seek. Most often, he got stuck seeking. You laughed a lot on those days.

You even defended Mike when the manager wrote him up for not controlling his child.

He remembers apologizing with coffee for getting you written up. He also remembers you assuring him that, “the client needs to calm the fuck down. It’s not like we knocked over an Urn.”

He remembers how you made him chuckle.

The manager doesn’t pair the two of you up anymore. Mike would have to ask his co-workers to change shifts with him if he wanted to see you more often, but asking sounds awkward.

You corner him in the office during shift change the night after you babysit Abby. You ask if he wants to go meet for coffee during the break hour, your treat.

He wants to say he’s busy. The words rest on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know why you want to do him another favor. You're making him feel jumbled and awkward.

But then you mention the food, and I’ll meet you in the lobby if you want to carpool, just slips out of his mouth.

A big part of Mike thinks he offered to drive because he feels guilty for interrupting your evening. He doesn’t want to spend time with you, he only wants to pacify you enough to leave him alone.

The smaller part feels curious -for lack of a better term- why are you being nice? What’s wrong with you?

Mike drags his feet to meet you at the office. He hates that he’s about to give up his break for the Hi! How-are-you’s and the I’m-doing-well’s of small talk. He hates that he’s spending his energy on something so unnecessary. Plus, it’s not like he’s ever been friends with you.

He hopes that he hasn’t given you the idea that he cares more than he does.

The café is nice. It has hanging vines over the counters and windowsills. It smells like espresso and fresh soil. There’s an old-looking bookshelf right by a sunny window. It feels homey.

You buy Mike's food, and he tries to downplay how happy he gets when he has enough leftovers for another meal. The two of you talk. You ask if he has a consistent babysitter, and he dodges the question. You tell him your ‘free nights’ in case he hasn’t found a babysitter by the time he needs one, because, apparently, you have a lot of fun with Abby.

Mike feels the defensiveness creep up into his neck. The urge to bare his teeth and roll his eyes crawls into the forefront of his mind. He can take care of Abby just fine. He’s beginning to think that you think they’re a charity case. They don’t need you.

You must notice Mike tense because you change the subject. You tell him about how vinegar helps when cleaning smoke-stained walls, and the work-drama surrounding your shared boss.

His shoulders unwind, and he even adds a few jokes about bad clients. His input seems to sweeten the interaction like the honey in the tea he’s drinking.

He has fun.

He calls you the next time he needs a babysitter.

A few months go by. You, Abby, and Mike settle into a schedule. He learns that your boyfriend shares a car with you. Mike and Oliver don’t talk much, but when they do, they’re cordial.

Abby’s never complained about Oliver, but Mike can feel the simmering judgment, and wonders if Oliver has ever said anything to you about them.

Mike can’t pay you all the time. In fact, he can’t pay you most of the time, but you don’t seem to care. He wants to ask why.

You have a day job separate from the nights at the cleaning company - just like him - and the generosity you have with your time makes him feel itchy; like he owes you something, but you never bring anything up.

Anyway, he’s stuck with you. Who else would he leave Abby with on weekends and three nights a week?

You’re different today. Your eyes look glossy, and when Mike asks how it went with Abby, you just say it went well.

He doesn’t ask, but he wants to.

Friday night, you call and cancel babysitting Abby.

Your voice sounds small, and he hears you sniff a few times.

He doesn’t think your emotions are his business, but it feels like it’s the right time to ask anyway.

So, Mike asks, “Everything alright?”

You answer without a beat, “Yeah, just caught a bug from work, I’ll just need a day.”

Mike doesn’t know how he feels about the words I’ll just need a day. It feels like you’re justifying yourself. It feels like words a coworker would say to another coworker.

“I’m sorry,” you finish. It’s so soft and genuine that it makes Mike’s breath hitch.

“No,” he blurts, “No need to be sorry. I hope you feel better soon,” and he genuinely does.

Mike can’t afford to skip today's shift. He’s already received too many late notices from his landlord. One more and he’ll be evicted.

He’ll probably have to work through lunch this week if he wants to make ends meet.

He doesn’t know what to do.

So, Mike does the only thing he can think of. Mike carefully instructs Abby to never touch the stove, never to go near the thermostat, don’t answer the door unless she hears their secret knock, don’t answer the phone, and to keep the blinds and curtains closed.

Abby Pinky promises to do all of those things. Mike believes her, but writes a list and tapes it to the fridge just in case she forgets.

Abby asks why she’s not going to your house while Mike prepares a quick breakfast. He tells her you’re sick as he inhales his portion.

“Does she need medicine?” Abby asks.

“I don’t know,” he puts his dishes in the sink, “she said she’d be better by tomorrow.”

“Does she have medicine?”

“Probably, she’s a grown-up.”

“Does she have chicken soup?”

Mike doesn’t know how he’s supposed to know that, but Abby sounds genuinely worried about whether or not you have chicken soup. So, he stops what he’s doing and puts all of his attention on his sister.

“She’s gonna be okay Abby, she’s just not feeling her best. You’ll see her tomorrow.”

His sister looks at the table. Her little eyebrows furrow as she plays with her food. Mike feels… a twist of ugly things in his gut. He doesn’t like that he can’t protect Abby. He doesn’t like that he’s leaving her home alone.

That night, Mike brings her ice cream and lets her stay up past her bedtime.

Tomorrow comes too soon.

Mike tries to keep his nose out of your business, but the packing boxes littering your home stare into his soul. Your car is gone, too.

You welcome Abby, and you smile at Mike, but your eyes seem vacant. You don’t look like you’ve been sick, but your eyes are puffy.

At this point, Mike knows something’s going on.

He wants to give you something, but what could he offer? He’s not sure how close the two of you are. He’s not sure what you want from him.

In reality, paying you would be the best thing he could do for you, but he can't do that. So, he keeps his head down and asks if you need anything.

You get solemn after Mike’s offer; like you have bad news that you've been waiting to spring on him.

Mike clenches his teeth. He's expecting you to tell him you're done; he hasn't paid you, and you're starting to get annoyed.

"Actually, I have a huge favor to ask"

That's not what Mike's expecting, but he can't say no without sounding like an asshole. So he says, "Sure, what's up?"

You lick your lips again, “You can totally say no. It’s kind of a lot, and I know you’re already busy, but Abby goes to school around the same time I go to work, and I’d pay you for gas money” You're fidgeting with the hem of your sweater, "Would you be willing to give me a ride to work this week?"

Mike doesn’t even hesitate, "What time do you need to be picked up?"

You bring Mike a muffin. You nurse a coffee.

You seem quieter in the mornings, but Mike is just quiet. So, interactions only occur when you need to give him directions.

It’s not necessarily awkward, but Mike still feels tense and icky at the beginning.

Picking you up in the afternoons feels better on Mike’s psyche. You talk more, and he knows where the cleaning company is, so he doesn’t have to ask where to go.

Sometimes Mike brings you left-over meals from his day job. Sometimes you bring him and Abby a packed lunch.

Abby’s enrolled in an after school program until 6pm the two nights you don’t have her. Mike has those nights off, but he still picks you up and drops you off before getting his sister.

A few weeks go by.

You settle into a new schedule. You still don’t have a car. Mike never reminds you that you offered gas money.

“Thank you” you unbuckle your seatbelt.

Mike parks the car in your driveway, “It’s no problem”

It’s the least he can do, really. But he doesn’t want to tell you that he feels like he owes you.

You haven’t left yet, and Mike’s starting to feel confused.

You sigh before looking at him, “I might be getting a roommate soon”

The words sound casual, but you’re pursing your lips and fidgeting with your sleeves. Mike doesn’t understand why.

“Sorry, it’s just, I figured you should know.” You lick your lips, “I can’t afford this place without a roommate, and I don’t feel comfortable letting Abby around someone I don’t know”

He’s grateful for that, honestly. But something in his gut still drops. He has no idea what he’s going to do without your help.

“When?” he croaks. He clears his throat, “uh when do you think you’ll have one by?”

He doesn’t have to go get Abby for another half-hour.

You shrug, rubbing a hand on your hairline, “hopefully within the next few weeks.”

He nods, he’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure if there’s anything to say.

Then you gasp so loud that Mike literally feels his heart bang against his lungs. Your eyes go bright and you look into Mike’s eyes with an excitement that makes him feel slightly overwhelmed.

“You wanna move in with me?!”

Mike spends the rest of the half-hour in your kitchen, brainstorming how the three of you can move Abby’s bed with Mike’s tiny car. Without paying for a moving truck.

But telling her that makes you feel an ugly kind of vulnerable.

“I don’t think he wants me like that,” you return.

It’s not a total lie. You’ve thought about the possibility that Mike’s behavior doesn’t imply sexual interest. Maybe he’s just nice.

“No. You’re wrong. That man wants you specifically.”

You have to resist rolling your eyes, “How do you know?”

Miranda laughs, it’s a teasing sound more than a happy one, “he kept looking at your tits when you weren’t looking.”

Well, that doesn’t mean that he wants you. But you don’t want to discuss it more than you already have. So, instead of responding, you shrug.

Although, the thought of Mike wanting you does make you feel things, the reminder of the possible fallout completely undoes the aching desire in your clit.

So far, Mike’s been a nice addition to your life.

He’s kind, in a way that contrasts his annoyed fuck-right-off demeanor, and he does the dishes after you cook. You wouldn’t want to do anything that might make him retreat further into himself. He deserves someone better than that.

On the flip side, maybe he wouldn’t make it a big deal, if you were honest with him.

Maybe, he wants you in the easy, uncomplicated way that you want him.

You hold up a dress to Miranda, “what about this in a darker green?”

She nods, “good enough for a wedding?”

“Yeah,” you say, “if you do silver jewelry.”

You don’t get back to the house until late that night.

A line of light seeps through the door in Mike’s room, but Abby’s side of the house is pitch black.

The light tells you Mike’s awake, but you still try to keep quiet during your shower and night routine.

You had a good day, but something muggy and cold gunks it up when you walk into your room, because the space…doesn’t feel right. It hasn’t felt right for a while now, and it’s annoying. The room is missing a nightstand on the right side, the TV is gone, and there’s less clothes in the closet.

It feels emptier.

The room doesn’t feel like your room anymore.

Actually, you know what? Fuck that and fuck this. You’re not going to just - just wallow in it. He left. It’s done. Move on. Who cares?

Not you, definitely not you.

You grind your teeth and grab a blanket before speed-tiptoeing to the living room.

You’re agitated, and you can’t stomp it down no matter how hard you try. It’s the kind of frustration that clouds your brain and makes you act differently, but you won’t admit that. You’re not ready to submit to the messy feelings layered underneath the frustration.

You’re so far into your own head that you don’t bother to think about the empty bed behind Mike’s ajar door.

Your absent mindedness doesn’t kick you in the ass until Mike’s gentle, hey nearly makes you jump to the sealing.

He grins. There’s a playful, teasing glint in the corner of his lips, but his eyes flicker with enough bashfulness for you to recognize that he scared you by accident.

“Sorry,” he doesn’t really look sorry, but the genuineness behind his smile feels like a balm, anyway, “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You don’t try to fight the breeze of calmness that Mike unintentionally ignites.

“Uh, you didn’t. I’m just…” you plop on the other side of the couch, “…tired.”

“Ah,” He says, but the teasing tint doesn’t leave his tone, “long day?”

Long day? That’s the kind of question Mike asks when he can tell another person feels off, but he doesn't want to acknowledge it head-on.

Mike recognizing the difference in you triggers a new feeling, but you’re not sure how to describe it.

It doesn’t make you happy, because honestly you’d rather not be that readable, but his understanding of you doesn’t make you feel worse either.

It’s something akin to the comfort of being recognized, with a generous amount of apathy mixed in, and it’s strangely relieving. It doesn’t burn, or overcome you the same way anger does.

“Exciting day,” you amend, “Busy.”

Mike nods like that explains everything, “yep, that’ll do it.”

That makes you grin at him. It’s not a happy grin, but it’s still a grin.

He smiles back before returning his attention to the show.

It’s a bit nuts to you, though. The thought that Mike recognized your mood as fast as he did. Are you that transparent? Or is he just empathetic?

Well, you have been living together for a while. Maybe he just knows you by now.

Still, it never occurred to you that Mike would ever care to learn about you. He always seemed too busy to spend time learning about a person’s individual cues or quirks.

But he learned about yours.

If literally anyone else asked you about your day, you wouldn’t think too hard about the nuances behind the question, but you like to think that you have a decent comprehension of Mike’s behavior by now, and he doesn’t start conversations with people he dislikes. In fact, he has a hard time even looking at people he dislikes.

Your mind flashes back to the afternoon drive after a night you can barely remember.

That afternoon, Mike acknowledged you in a way that even your best friends only addressed in empty reassurances and sympathetic hugs.

That’s not to say that you have bad friends, they just didn’t know what you needed. They’ve never been around the stubborn, self-destructive heartbreak that practically oozed from your skin.

Mike held you accountable. He didn’t let you stomp all over yourself without consequence, and it made you recognize the emotional roller coaster you’d taken yourself on. He made you talk about your issue, and by extension, he made you own up to painful feelings that you’d been trying to drown.

He didn’t mean it in the way you’re taking it, and you know it, but that doesn’t change the fact that he acknowledged you in a way that you didn’t realize you needed. He didn’t have to, he could’ve ignored your crisis. He could have told you to find someone else to give you rides, or let your relationship deteriorate into nothing but roommates.

Although you feel grateful for what he did, you won’t ignore the fact that he didn’t do it for you. He did it for Abby, but by doing it for Abby, didn’t he show that he’s willing to talk about difficult things if it’ll protect the people he loves?

He - very unintentionally - revealed a kind, vulnerable part of himself that you feel like you’re clinging to, or misreading.

You care about him, and it’s painful to admit because - well, it just is.

Maybe it's hard because you haven’t given him the same vulnerability that he’s offered you. He trusts you more than you trust him, and that makes you feel a bit guilty, but it also makes you question the validity of the entire friendship.

It makes you feel like a bad friend.

Sure you feed him, and his sister too, but you don’t give him any pieces of yourself that he can’t pick up from surface-level interactions. You don’t readily give him the same level of intimacy he gifts you.

You tried, after the talk in the car, but it’s hard to be vulnerable with someone like Mike. You don’t think you want to.

Maybe he doesn’t mind the way you keep him at an arm’s distance. But what if he does?

Whatever, thinking yourself into circles won’t make you feel better. So, instead, you take a deep breath, then ask what he’s watching.

His smile comes back at your stab at conversation, but it’s softer and calmer than the teasing smirk from before. It’s sweet, the way his eyes gain life when he gets excited.

He tells you about the show.

The way his fingers twitch when he talks makes your pussy throb against nothing. They’re thick. They would feel good on you, in you.

Fuck, maybe he’d be satisfied with a different kind of intimacy.

Throughout the duration of the show, you examine Miranda’s observation of Mike under a microscope.

She had been the one to tell you about Oliver’s feelings for you. So, you don’t doubt her judgment, but something about acting on her interpretation of Mike’s looks seems presumptuous.

Okay, but you do want to fuck him. So, maybe it’s fine.

How would you seduce him? If you could.

Mike gets a bit more…open and daring when he’s tipsy. So do you. Maybe you get drunk together and hope that it just happens?

Yeah, no. That’s not - that doesn’t feel right.

With Oliver, you could just give him the eyes, and he’d understand what you wanted.

Mike doesn’t seem that easy.

Maybe, you could just hop on his lap and kiss him and hope for the best.

You could just ask.

What could you ask?

You could ask him how long it’s been.

You could ask in a way that makes it seem like an arrangement. A business deal rather than anything involving feelings.

But then, something funny happens on the TV, and Mike laughs, and the genuine carefree happiness that shines in his eyes makes you completely forget all about seducing him.

He doesn’t even know how amazing he is, and it strikes you like an eye-watering punch. He deserves to know. You wished he’d listen, if you told him.

The way he smiles reminds you of the moon. His happiness will never be overwhelming, his laugh will never light up a room the way the sun shines through a windowsill, but it still shines.

He still gives light. Even when he’s not the brightest source of light.

He deserves more than to be treated like an arrangement.

The biggest drawback about realizing that someone deserves to be thought about better than the way you’re thinking about them, is the mental discipline that comes after.

That’s not to say that accountability sucks, or that you’ve thought about Mike in a particularly nasty way, it’s more like, deciding on what you’re trying to decide sucks.

First and foremost, you’re not going to try to fuck Mike, because it doesn’t feel right. In fact, the thought of actively trying to get in his pants makes you feel like you’re taking advantage of a situation that you shouldn’t be taking advantage of. But sometimes that arousing desire creeps up on you, no matter how hard you try to stuff it away.

Maybe, one day, if the timing feels right.

Abby runs into the kitchen, and it breaks you out of your contemplation.

She’s not even out of her pajamas when she starts serving herself.

You greet her nonetheless.

“Why oatmeal?” She asks, completely and utterly ignoring you. She grimaces in pure disgust after she takes a scoop of the oats and then dumps it back into the pot. You try not to laugh, but her sass invokes a smile.

“It’s the only thing we have.” You answer, “I’ll go grocery shopping tonight, but for now this is all we got.”

Abby answers you with a cringe, “I’ll eat at school.”

Generally, Abby’s attitude makes you laugh, but that doesn’t change the mild discomfort of the situation.

Mike relies on you to feed her in the morning. It’s not necessarily your responsibility - she’s his sister - so, if Mike tries to say anything, you wouldn’t take his criticism to heart, but you’d hate for Abby's food preferences to make her uncomfortably hungry at school.

“You’re gonna be hungry if you don’t eat, are you sure you don't want it?” You hope she can’t hear the flicker of amusement behind your words, and you hope Mike won’t get mad at you for not forcing breakfast down her throat.

“Oatmeal is gross,” she answers before putting her bowl back in the cabinet.

“You can put syrup in it to make it sweeter.” You try, just one more time.

She tells you no, oatmeal will always be gross. Then she scurries back to her room. To get ready for school, hopefully.

You try to downplay your chuckle at her refusal. You love Abby, you genuinely do, but you’re very thankful that you don’t have children.

Mike bumps into her on his way into the kitchen, “Wait Abbs, are you seriously not dressed?”

This time, you don’t even try to hide your amusement at their interaction.

Abby screams from her room, I’m getting dressed!

Mike’s exasperated hurry up we’re gonna be late follows her scream, and Abby retorts with, I am hurrying! and it almost makes you lose your shit.

When Mike faces you, the slight irritation in his furrowed brows melts away, and it’s replaced with a bone-deep look of exhaustion.

That breaks you out of your amusement.

“Hey,” you greet, “there’s coffee in the pot.”

He goes straight to the coffee, “did she eat?”

Must’ve been one of those nights.

Your sleep varies day-to-day, and sometimes you’re awake late enough to hear Mike wake up in the middle of the night. It doesn’t happen terribly often, but it happens enough for you to understand that sleep disruptions cause him his fair share of dead-eyed mornings.

You don’t think he’d think it’s any of your business, though. So, you don’t say anything about it.

“No, but she said she’d eat at school.”

Mike nods, but his shoulders look tense.

Should you ask if he’s alright? Would it help him? If you asked.

No, you don’t think asking would help, at least, not right now.

Welp, back to business then, “we need groceries, I was thinking I’d stop at the store, then take a cab home, is there anything specific you want?”

Mike stuffs in a bite of oatmeal before answering, “I can still pick you up, if that’s alright. We have the time to stop by the store before we pick up Abby.”

Thank god, cabs cost money, “Okay, cool. Thanks”

Mike mhms through his food, “there’s a packed lunch in the fridge for you.”

You smile and thank him, but the paper bag with your initials scribbled on it serves as a warm reminder for you. Mike cares.

A/N: Hey!!! I know this was a long time coming, and I want to thank you for the support despite my awkward writing schedule!!! I’m really enjoying exploring this story in my head, but sometimes the words are hard to find.

Anyways, I want to thank you for your time! I sincerely hope you enjoyed!

@seamaiden

“Take it off.” Fuck, he sounds pathetic even to himself, “Please - Fuck - Take it off, please.”

You…don’t.

Instead you reach for his belt buckle and plant your lips on that little patch of skin below the curve of his jaw.

The warm wetness of your tongue on his neck makes his brow furrow and his tongue loll.

He wants that feeling to scar itself on his nerves. He wants to remember this when the sun returns.

Mike tilts his head to the side. The clink of his belt buckle coming loose makes his head start to feel a little light, so he grabs a palmful of your ass and guides you to the edge of the bed.

You lean back, and Mike chases your eyes until he’s hovering above you.

You… look good, laying under him. The way your lungs move gives Mike a nice view of your tits.

The anticipation of your touch feels like a shot of euphoria in itself. It’s like electricity shooting straight to the tip of his cock.

The aching throb makes him want to beg. It makes him want to plead and negotiate until you finally give him anything.

God, he’ll take anything you give him. Anything you want.

Eventually, you get his pants open enough for your palm to slide his cock out through the opening of his boxers.

Your hands are so… so soft, and warm and he’s hurting and leaking.

You swipe your thumb over that sensitive little slit at the tip.

He thrusts into your hand so hard that the tip of his dick hits your thigh.

The sensation makes his elbows buckle.

The new weight makes your dress ride up and -

You don’t have any panties on.

Mike’s head jerks down.

You don’t - you’re bare and - oh fuck you’re bare and you’re so hot.

He’s moving like he’s not conscious of himself when he brings his fingers to your slit.

Your hands fly to his biceps, Mike doesn’t know why you’re gripping him so tight, but he likes it. He likes the way your touch sets his whole body on fire.

He slides his fingers through your pussy one more time. This time, his middle finger prods at the center of your core.

The little mewl coming from your lips just encourages him.

He presses down a bit, not enough to give you any satisfaction, but enough to feel the throbbing resistance give in a little.

Your wetness excites him. The way your legs lay open makes him want to dive in and devour you.

He’s sure to slide his finger up your clit when he removes his hand from where he wants to feel you the most.

The way your legs jerk apart makes his tongue tingle.

Mike doesn’t waste any time. He slides his hand down to the bend of your knee and lifts your thigh over his hip.

You understand what he’s trying to do, and Mike can’t stop the breathless moan from escaping when you guide his dick to that pretty, warm, wet, velvety area between your legs.

One thrust and he slams balls deep inside you.

The choked sob that comes from the base of your throat mixes with his strangled groan.

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I know it hurts - oh f - fuh - fuck - please.”

Fuck - and the way you’re dragging your hands from his biceps, to his waist, and back to his shoulders.

He can feel you everywhere.

Mike goes a bit dumb, he’s groping any skin he can find. He’s pretty sure he hears a rip from your dress when he pulls down the neckline to get a fistful of your tits, but your cute little whimpers drown it out too much for him to be sure.

He nuzzles his nose into that little curve where your collar bone meets your neck. He's trying, he’s really trying not to move, but the way your pussy’s just gripping and tightening. Fuck it’s so fucking hard.

When you start to writhe beneath him Mike starts to feel that simmering burst of pleasure creep closer.

“M - Move”

Fuck the way you say it. You make it sound like a demand, and who is Mike to deny you?

Mike rutts further inside you. He wants to touch that sweet spot that makes you gasp.

He wants to feel close to you.

He wants you to swallow him whole.

He must take too long trying to find his joints because you flip him over and press your lips to his.

Your tongue tastes like something Mike can’t name, but he’s chasing the sensation when you pull away.

His hips twitch.

You lean into his upward bucks.

God, the way you’re squeezing.

Mike grabs your hips. He needs to grab something or - or…

The little gasp that flies out of your mouth makes Mike sit up and hook his arms around your waist.

He can’t let you move. He’s too close. He’s not ready to finish yet.

You run your hands through Mike’s hair, and then you tug.

His dick jumps inside you.

He bites your neck.

You make a little pained noise, but the pleasure of Mike’s teeth makes you tilt your head back.

Mike wants to leave himself imprinted on you. He wants to see the bruises when you walk out of the shower or lounge on the loveseat.

You sway your hips on Mike’s lap, an experimental swish from side to side, and the gravelly sound that bubbles out of his throat makes you feral.

The sway of your hips becomes a roll. You’re pushing him closer to an ending he’s not ready for, but he doesn’t want to tell you to slow down.

So, he closes his eyes and slides his hand down your body.

He’s gentle at first; his touch only a little more than a caress. The lightness is almost overwhelming. His hand starts from your ribs, at that little section of tenderness below your breasts. Then, Mike drags his palm lower and then he goes lower.

His middle finger reaches the sensitive little nub above where your bodies connect, and his caress becomes more than a caress.

Mike’s touch is more like an attempt to break into you. The roughness of his fingers circling your clit, paired with how he’s hooked his elbow around your waist, is blissful in a way that makes that growing ache between your thighs blaze into a pleasure that’s almost painful.

His fingers tease your bud like he knows what he’s doing.

Your pussy bears down in response.

He makes a choked little moan before pressing his forehead to your shoulder, his tongue lapping at whatever skin he can reach.

You wrap your arms around his neck. Your nails are digging into his shoulder blades. The pain mixes with the throbbing knot that’s about to burst.

He’s so close, he’s so… he’s close. Just a little more.

BEEEEP

That fucking alarm.

Mike rips himself out of bed and presses the snooze button with a bit more force than he usually does.

God, he can’t fucking escape his desire for you.

A/N: LOL what do you think??

I kinda wanna explore a FWB kind of relationship but I also kinda love slow burns

“… so quickly. Whatever you’re doing, it’s clearly…”

Plus, Mike has more important things on his mind.

“… good that she has someone like you.”

Mike barely catches the end of her…seemingly endless lecture.

He hears the compliment. It feels unwarranted but Mike politely grins anyway.

Mike has questions. He has so many questions.

The problem that the counselor is referring to… Abby healed it on her own, mostly. Her friends helped her - but crawling out of her shell - thats all her. Mike just made sure she didn’t die. Even then…

He still feels stabbing guilt; a lot of the time. For what he almost did.

“Sh - She gets nightmares, sometimes,” Mike does too, but this isn’t about him.

“is” he gulps down the lump in his throat, “- is there anything I can do?”

The counselor folds her hands together like she’s trying to explain something to a feral child. Mike recognizes the gesture. It’s not one of genuine kindness; it’s the kind of gesture someone enacts when dealing with a delicate situation.

“Does she talk to anyone? About the nightmares.”

Mike huffs, “she’s pretty tight lipped about it,” but he knows that she wants them to stop.

“No,” the counselor almost sounds amused, Mike tries not to let the tone offend him.

“I mean does she talk to anyone about it.”

Ah. He gets it now.

“You mean like a shrink?” He questions.

The counselor nods and gives him a look doused in sympathy. It makes Mike want to get up and leave.

“Can’t afford it.”

“Ah,” she says, before launching into another lecture about how to avoid dreams, and calm anxiety before bed.

Mike listens this time.

The day after the meeting, Mike goes about his day.

Everything goes how it’s supposed to go. He goes to work, coordinates with his project supervisor, and eats lunch.

Until he gets a call from Abby’s school.

When Mike’s coworker, Jordan, calls him out of the work room, he says it’s an emergency.

Mike’s heart fucking palpitates. He almost drops the damn drill.

He’s never struggled to take off his gloves, or unclip the bulky helmet, but he does now. His hands get clammy and hot. It gets hard to breathe.

Mike’s still has the safety goggles on when he gets to the phone.

“Hello? What’s wrong?”

Abby’s voice comes through the other end, “Can I have a sleepover with Selina?”

Mike exhales. He rips the safety goggles off and rubs the bridge of his nose.

He takes one more deep breath before answering, “Is that all you called to ask?”

Abby confirms before launching into an explanation, “Please, please. Katy is going, and so is Josie and Sofia and they’re making cookies and Silena has a trampoline.”

Mike’s tapping the phone, his fingers feel tingly and that urge to hold his breath comes back, “Look, I don’t think that’s a good -“

“- No, It’s fine. They have a trampoline Mike, please.”

She doesn’t get it.

That’s the hardest part. She doesn’t understand that she’s not safe at someone else’s house. Overnight? What if there’s a fire? or what if she can’t sleep?

Mike remembers the school counselor's words about Abby’s progress. He would’ve taken her opinion with a grain of salt, if he didn’t see it for himself.

Even according to Mike’s independent observation; Abby’s started to smile around other kids a lot more compared to before.

In fact, she’s planning fucking sleepovers with other kids.

Mike thinks about his mom.

What would their parents do?

“I want to talk to Selina’s parents first.”

So, Mike does end up talking to Selina’s parents.

He meets them in the parking lot after school.

They explain the whole ordeal. Their plans and the occasion that sparked the sleepover.

They seem normal. They remind Mike of coworkers his dad used to invite to 4th of July grills.

The mom - Janice - works at the hospital, and the dad - Sean - works at a bakery.

Sean and Janice give Mike their house address. So, he knows where to drop off Abby after she goes home to pick up clothes and a sleeping bag.

When Mike enters the car, he’s greeted with two sets of expectant gazes.

Mike’s eyes shift between the two of you, Abby’s grinning, but you just look sheepish.

Mike rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, “make sure to pack your toothbrush.”

Abby smiles on the way home.

You're in the living room when just Mike walks through the door.

You have pajamas on, and you’re lounging on a loveseat tilted towards the TV. A mug of wine rests on the coffee table. Along with some type of cheese and cracker.

Something smells good.

“There’s food on the stove, it should still be hot” you call, then eat a cracker.

Mike beelines a straight shot to the kitchen, “Thanks.”

You mhm through a mouthful.

Mike can’t wait to eat, but when he reaches for a plate he sees the specks of sawdust layering his clothes.

He clenches his jaw, and counts backwards from ten.

“Hey, uh, I’m gonna shower first, but if you leave the dishes I’ll do them later.”

Your eyes stay glued to the TV, “Okay, there’s also wine on the top of the fridge. If you want any.”

Mike showers and dresses. When he returns to the kitchen, the quietness hits him square in the face.

Abby’s not in the house, and it feels like he’s forgetting something important - Like his keys are missing, or he lost his wallet - It puts him on edge.

Despite his unease, something sweet and warm, like syrup, spreads through Mike when he serves himself a portion of dinner.

It’s mostly covered up by the gray-haired worry about Abby at someone else’s house, but Mike won’t deny the comfort of having a good meal, and wine, after working.

Mike doesn’t know how he did it when he lived alone with Abby. He had to cook, clean, and pay bills. All on his own.

Back before you, Mike would have to leave in thirty minutes for his second shift of the day.

Mike wonders if Abby enjoys the new schedule as much as he’s enjoying it.

He brings the food and the wine to the coffee table, and sits on the sofa adjacent to your loveseat.

Mike has no idea what the fuck you’re watching, but it seems…interesting.

He doesn’t care to complain, though. It’s not like he’s invested in the show.

A few beats of comfortable silence fly by before you speak, “How was work?”

Your question feels like an embrace. It’s the type of question that someone asks when they want to talk, but can’t think of anything else to say.

You want to talk to Mike, and it makes him feel some type of way.

Maybe it’s not that deep.

“Good - long - what’re we watching?”

“No idea. I think she,” you point to a character, “wants to do something that he-” you point to a different character, “doesn’t like. So, she’s going behind his back and stuff. But I’m just watching this because I like the show that comes on next, and I don’t wanna miss it.”

Mike hums through his food. He kind of wants to ask why you’re not going out. It’s Friday night.

Are you feeling alright? What’s different about this Friday from all the other Fridays?

Instead he does the dishes.

When he returns, he’s still not really paying attention to your show. Even though, every now and then you’ll add commentary. He just mhm’s through it.

Does Abby remember his number in case she wants to go early? What if she gets too cold in their house? What if she has a nightmare? Would she call him?

His fingers are pulling apart the threads at the arm of the couch, and his leg is bouncing.

He drinks more wine.

“- about it?”

Mike snaps out of his head, “uh,” he tries to blink himself awake, “- sorry, what?”

You shrug and gesture to his fingers pulling apart the couch, “you’re um,” you clear your throat, “you seem… off. Do you want to talk about it?”

He…didn’t even notice that he was fidgeting with the threads like that.

“Oh,” he chuckles, but the sound comes out sounding more awkward, and nervous than amused, “is it that obvious?”

“No, no not at all,” you make eye contact with him, and that creamy comfort returns to make a sugary home in Mike’s chest.

“Well…” you begin, “…Kinda, yeah.”

This time, the laugh you pull out of Mike sounds genuine. Even to him.

It’s not a huge laugh, more of a happy scoff really, but it makes him feel a little better nonetheless.

“It’s just…” Mike starts, and you direct your body to face him instead of the TV.

Even though your show is playing. You want to listen to Mike more than you want to watch your show.

He has to fight down a smile, “…this is the first time Abby’s had a sleepover.”

Your mouth makes an O-shape, and you nod like you’ve got it all figured out.

“Yeah, the first time is always the hardest.”

That makes Mike think. How would you know?

“My mom used to get so nervous when my brother started going to sleepovers,” you add.

Your understanding of his nervousness makes sense, given the backstory, but there’s a detail in that sentence about you, and it means something to him.

“You have siblings?”

You nod excitedly, “a brother and a sister.”

Mike literally has no idea how he’s never heard about this before, “how - how old are they?”

“My sister’s seventeen. She’s a junior in High school,” you’re talking with your hands as you talk about your siblings. You seem excited, It’s making Mike smile.

“You should see her play sports, she's the Volleyball team captain this year…”

For real, you’re talking about them like you’re proud, and the genuine joy in your tone makes Mike want to crawl up next to you.

“- and my brother’s heading into middle school but he’s such a sweet kid. He used to get so excited when we went to the park. He loves to climb trees.”

It sounds like you haven’t seen them in a while.

The stories connect a few dots for Mike, though. This is why you’re good with Abby.

You and Mike end up talking more, he blames the wine.

Apparently, he gets chatty when he feels that familiar alcohol-induced warmth in his stomach.

Eventually, he asks why you didn’t go out on a Friday night.

The answer is much simpler than he expects.

“My show finally came out with a new season, and the new episodes air on Fridays.”

Mike snickers. His amusement comes at the expense of himself. Of course it was something simple, he doesn’t know why he even bothered to speculate.

He doesn’t expect you to return the question. But you do.

“ - it’s your night off, Abby’s taken care of, and don’t you miss going out and doing your own thing?”

Well, to be honest, he never really had the time. For years, Mike spent nights occupied with…something he doesn’t need to do anymore.

He can’t tell you that, though.

So he says, “Nah, I never went out. Even before Abby.”

“Is it ‘cause you don’t like crowded spaces?”

Mike doesn’t think too hard about that, but he snickers because it feels like you pulled it out of a hat.

He snickered again. He’s doing that a lot around you.

It’s probably just the wine.

“No? Just never had the time.”

You nod, but then you get that wide-eyed excited look that you got when you asked Mike to move in with you,

“Wanna go out tonight?”

If anyone, ever, asked about why Mike agreed as quickly as he did, he’d blame the wine. He’d blame the wine until he went blue in the face and died of suffocation.

He doesn’t even admit to himself that the wine isn’t the reason he said yes.

After he agrees, you tell him about a place that you think he’d like.

You say that it’s, “like a botanical garden, but they put lights up, and serve food, at night.”

You tell him that it’s not crowded, like a bar or club, because technically it’s a fancy place, and that’s why you both need to change clothes before calling a cab.

So, Mike calls a cab. Then, he puts on a button-down shirt, and throws on a pair of his nice jeans.

Still, he feels slightly, very, underdressed compared to you.

You come out of your room wearing an elegant little black dress that hugs parts of you in a way that makes Mike blush and breathe heavy.

Your neck stays uncovered. He sees the skin where the hickies used to be, but this time there’s no hickies.

Mike can think of a way to change that.

His dick jumps, and he wishes he could do something about it.

You make him feel things that he doesn’t want to feel.

“You ready?” You ask, and Mike has to swallow and take a deep breath to keep himself in check.

He’s very ready. Just, not in the way you think.

“Uh, yeah. Are - are you?”

You smile and nod.

The cab drive goes well. Mike’s getting used to the tightness in his pants.

So, that place that you’d said he’d like, he does.

At first, it felt like he didn't belong. A lot of people dressed better than him, many have their hair in hairstyles, and he can’t pronounce more than half the food on the menu.

You can, though.

To be fair, the menu ended up as a non-problem; because after you pointed out the prices, Mike gave you a look, and you gave him the same look back.

You both scurried out of the seating area before an employee could take any orders.

Mike likes the botanical garden.

He likes how you talk in the botanical garden.

It costs to get in, but it’s gorgeous.

It's the twilight hour when you walk through the pathway together.

Sometimes your arms brush.

Every time it happens, Mike’s heart fills with something, but you don’t seem affected.

He glances at your fingers throughout the walk. He starts to note the little divots in your palms. How would they feel against his? Would you be mad? If Mike picked up your hand and kissed the palm?

You talk about the practical uses of plants that you see. Mike learns that dried-up yarrow leaves can help clot blood. He also learns that solar energy powers the lights shining on the rows of green life.

You talk about how cool it is, that the owners made this place one-hundred-percent sustainable, and he can’t help but agree.

Your smile infects him with feelings that flutter through his arteries, and you’re smiling a lot.

Eventually, conversation lulls, but it’s the nice kind of lull. It’s a quiet comfort, like warm sheets and fresh tea.

There’s a greenhouse exhibit towards the end of the pathway. A worker checks in your coat, then tells you where to pick it up at the end of the exhibit.

When he first steps inside, Mike nearly goes into shock over the change in temperature. It’s hot, and he has to roll up his sleeves immediately or risk complaining about it.

It doesn’t help.

The place smells good, though; like moist soil and moss.

The greenhouse has fairy lights hanging overhead, and multicolored flowers decorate the pathway.

It’s laid out like a maze, the illuminated path winds around little islands of floral beauty.

Mike likes the palm trees. Most of them have pretty colored lights wrapped around the trunk.

It’s nice, Mike won’t deny the otherworldliness of the beauty, but honestly, he wouldn’t enjoy it as much if you weren’t there.

You bring a certain excitement to the excursion that Mike doesn’t think he can feel on his own.

You ask him if he likes plants, and honestly, he’s never thought about it.

He shrugs says they’re nice, because they are, and they’re starting to remind him of you.

His shirt collar is drenched in sweat by the time you two get to the end of the greenhouse.

He’s self-conscious about the wetness at first, but then he sees your neck.

It makes him want to do other things that would make you sweat.

The garden isn’t that populated right now. He could do it, if you wanted it too.

Lift up your skirt, press his dick against the plush of your ass. He’d nuzzle his nose into the crook of neck, and breathe you in before dragging his tongue along your nape.

He’d grab a fistful of your tits from the front of your dress.

He would take off your panties, but he wouldn’t give them back. He’d keep them in his pocket like a treasured souvenir.

Would you like it? If Mike made you walk around with wetness staining your inner thighs?

Maybe you’d find it demeaning, to be forced to walk around like that, but maybe you wouldn’t.

Mike’s very glad that it’s nighttime, because it’s too dark for you to see the outline of his half-hard dick.

The pathway leads to an outdoor bar.

The counter rests under a gazebo-like structure. Vines curl around the pillars like the lights on the palm trees, and quiet music plays over the chatter of the customers.

The bartender greets you by name.

You introduce the bartender to Mike as Miranda, and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s seen her before.

Miranda comments on it before he does. Mike probably wouldn’t have anyway.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you before, you’re the roommate right?” Miranda asks, and Mike gives her a tight-lipped grin.

“Yeah, it’s nice to officially meet you,” he returns.

“Yeah you too,” she says, “Anyway, is there anything I can get you guys? Completely on the house.”

You get a little wide-eyed at that, “Hey no, it’s okay, we can -“

“- I still owe you for dinner last week, remember? It’s fine. Tequila sunrise?”

You ease into your barstool, a soft, yeah spilling from your lips.

Mike thinks it's cute.

However, Miranda’s attention moves to Mike, and his panic chases away the good feelings.

Mike’s never been to a bar like this before. He’s not sure what to order, he’s not sure how, “uh, what do you have?”

Miranda gestures to the bottles behind her, “I can make anything as long as we have the ingredients. What do you usually drink?”

He doesn’t.

“Do you have anything…” Mike’s cheeks are heating, he can feel it, it’s making him feel dumb, “…non-alcoholic?”

Miranda doesn’t judge his inability to order quickly. It helps.

“Yeah, I can do virgin drinks. What were you thinking?”

God, all these questions. He doesn’t like turning down free shit, but he’s starting to feel tempted to.

“What’s popular?”

“Piña Coladas and Strawberry Daiquiris are the most popular virgin drinks, but we also have fountain drinks if that sounds better.”

“Strawberry Daiquiris are good, they’re like slushies.” You interject.

Mike orders a Strawberry Daiquiri.

When Miranda leaves, Mike feels like he can breathe again.

Mike wonders, if you notice the nervousness behind the way he’s crossing his arms, because you smile, and tell him that he looks nice in a button-down.

Miranda returns with free drinks before he can think himself into a hernia.

Abby would like the Strawberry Daiquiri.

For the rest of the night, Miranda makes stops at yours and Mike’s corner of the bar.

Miranda’s presence made Mike uncomfortable at first, because he doesn’t know her, but your friend pulls him into conversations in ways that he doesn’t mind.

It helps that Mike likes how you look at him when Miranda asks him a question.

He likes how you’re paying attention to him, even when your friend is right in front of you.

Miranda comes out from behind the bar when you mention that it’s getting late.

She gives you a hug first, then she shakes Mike's hand.

Her touch makes him think of your palms.

When the two of you get home, it’s just a little past 10 p.m.

Mike wants to thank you, for showing him a place like that, and for spending your evening with him.

He didn’t have to spend the night cooped up, worrying himself into a frenzy, because you brought him out.

The gratitude gets stuck in his throat.

What does he say? Hey, thanks for spending a night around me! Let’s do it again sometime!

Well, sure, he could say that, but he would rather stay quiet.

He doesn’t want to come off too strong, he doesn’t want to give you a peek into the meat of him.

He’s surprised when you say something.

“Thank you for coming out. I had fun.”

The words come out a little awkwardly, like you’re unsure.

Mike’s eyes find yours, and the little smile in the corner of your lips makes him feel better - despite the quiet house.

He licks his lips and offers you a similar small grin, “Yeah, Me too.”

And he means it.

A/N: Although I feel conflicted about this chapter, I’m very thankful for the love you’ve given me on the previous two!

“Morning, Abby’s brushing her teeth,” you hand Mike a plate of toast with jam and scrambled eggs, “I have to stay late today. Our department has a project due.”

Mike nods, “Okay,” he swallows a mouthful of eggs, “what time should I go for you?”

You put the egg pan in the sink, on top of two other plates.

“Actually, I’m going out tonight. So I think you’re good until tomorrow morning”

Honestly, it surprised him a bit, when he found out you had other friends.

Well, that sounds bad, he’s just surprised by the activity within your social life. It makes him crave something he didn’t know he cared about.

“Will you be home tonight?” He asks.

You gulp down the last of your coffee like a shot. Then you shrug, “I wouldn’t count on it, but maybe.”

Mike swallows his last bite and takes his plate to the sink, “Okay, be safe.”

You smile and finish getting ready for the day. Mike does the dishes.

To be honest, Mike loves having a roommate.

You split the bills evenly. Mike takes half the rent, you take the water bill. Mike gets electric, but you have the insurance.

It’s nice. It feels like he found an island after struggling to keep afloat.

He can afford to go way down in hours. Rather than carry the weight of two full-time jobs, Mike only has to manage one, with the odd double shift.

There’s a park within walking distance from your house. It has a tire swing. Mike has the time to walk Abby there on weekends, and the energy to give her a boost.

Sometimes, You come home smelling like booze.

Sometimes, Mike stays up past Abby’s bedtime to make lunches for the next day. Or to catch up on forgotten chores.

Sometimes, he stays up just ‘cause he can do that now; without feeling mind-crushing guilt.

Sometimes, you run into each other on those nights.

It’s Friday night, a week after you successfully completed the work project, and you stumble into the house at an odd hour.

You smell like a mix of someone else’s cologne and cheap alcohol. Your lipstick is smudged and your clothes look ruffled.

Mike watches you wobble to the sink after kicking off your shoes.

He pretends not to notice the hickeys littering your neck while you chug a glass of water.

“Rough day?” He means it as a joke, but Mike doubts the concerned tilt of his eyebrows makes it seem like one.

“MMmm nuh uh” you answer; slightly out of breath, “S-sorry, just a lil’ thirsty.”

Mike chuckles. He puts a bowl of leftover pasta in the microwave.

If anyone ever asked, he’d deny it until his tongue fell out. But Mike thinks you're cute drunk, and he likes how the curve of your breasts peek out of that top.

Nights like this make him feel kind of gross. He goes to bed soaked with guilt because he knows he shouldn’t ogle anyone like he’s ogling you.

If you ever found out about how he stared at you after you slumped into a kitchen stool, he’d kill himself.

You’re wearing a skirt, and he can see… he can see the inside of your thighs. You’re slouching too. He can see the trail of purple outline your collar bones, and lead into - No.

He sets the bowl of pasta in front of you and then sits down across from you. He’s praying you didn’t see him twitch under his pants.

You slowly eat the pasta, like you’re having trouble feeling your mouth.

Mike stirs his tea.

He tries not to think about your mouth.

When you’re finished, you look a little less, unbothered. Your eyes go a little dark, and you’re holding your head up awkwardly.

“Ready for bed?” Mike questions. He hopes you don’t hear the desperation hidden in the softness of his voice.

You nod.

He leaves an old pot by your bed before heading to his own room.

Nights like this, Mike feels how long it’s been since he’s gotten pussy.

His dick is throbbing. It’s begging, and it hurts, but he fucking refuses to give in.

Mike tries to clench his legs and think about anything, other than how you might’ve looked riding someone else’s dick.

His hips buck up into nothing.

Your tits would bounce. The other guy probably loved it. Mike bets the other guy couldn’t resist popping your nipples into his mouth. Or maybe he used his hands. Maybe he gripped your tits so hard that you saw stars.

Mike rolls over - face down - his pelvis squishes his boner into the bed at this angle. He’s glad for the pillow that swallows his groan.

He thought the new position would help, but it doesn’t, the friction just makes everything worse.

Mike can’t get those damn hickies out of his head. They’ve seared into his mind like a brand that just keeps bleeding. He wants to lick them. He wants to know what you’d do if he licked them.

Oh god, and your thighs.

It takes him a moment to realize that he’s grinding against his sheets.

He huffs, practically ripping off his boxers and gripping the base of his dick.

He gives in.

He thinks about how you’d look sprawled on his bed.

What would you do? - Mike wonders - if you woke up to him between your thighs?

Mike would go slow, he’d go so slow, and he’d make it feel good. He wouldn’t leave until you shake.

He’d spread you open first; let your legs rest open like a monument. He might indulge himself with a kitten lick along your clit.

Then, he’d slide a finger through your slit.

Would you want to sit on his face?

Mike's balls go tight, his dick jumping as he imagines your weight on his tongue.

He licks his lips, hoping to taste something he’s never had.

He finishes all over his stomach, and tries not to imagine how you’d look licking it up.

He doesn’t know how he’s gonna look into your eyes tomorrow.

It's Saturday, and Mike said he’d give you a ride to a car that you found on Craigslist.

“What happened to your car?” Abby asks at the beginning of the drive.

Mike glares at his sister through the mirror, but he can’t shush her without revealing that he’s already figured out what happened to your car.

“It’s not mine anymore” you respond. Your tone isn’t sad, or forlorn, but the mood shifts anyway.

Mike fills the awkwardness by asking what Abby wants for lunch.

You don’t end up buying the car.

The guy on Craigslist listed the car under Used, Like New but the car was definitely not, Like New.

You apologize to Mike so many times he stops keeping count, but he really doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal.

He had to look for months before he found a reliable car for an affordable price.

He’s sure to tell you as much, but he still finds extra cash in his glove compartment the next day.

Sometimes it feels like you don’t think of him as a friend, just someone you’re living with.

It bothers him.

You go out again on Sunday night, you come home smelling even worse.

Mike’s in the living room when he hears something fumble with the locks. At first, he thinks nothing of it, but then he hears a thump against the door.

Mike peeks through the peephole, and rolls his eyes after he watches you almost eat shit when you lose your footing.

You’re too drunk to stand on your own. Mike doesn’t even bother to ask if you’re okay, he just helps you to your room and puts the old pot near your bed, again.

Abby sleeps across the house, so she doesn’t hear you puke your guts out at 3a.m.

Mike does, and it makes him feel something bad. It’s a feeling he’s not used to associating with you. Disappointment? Disgust?

Something like that - there’s a bit of anger in there too - but it’s also mixed with worry. You’re not the type of person to get black-out drunk on a Sunday night.

But still, that’s two nights this week you’ve come home drunk.

In literally any other circumstance, Mike would mind his own business, but you live with Abby now.

He remembers the little furrow of Abby’s brow when he told her that you got sick. How worried would Abby get if she heard you puking in the middle of the night? How the fuck could he even begin to explain that to her?

Mike doesn’t want her to be around someone who’s drinking themselves stupid; It’s dysfunctional. Didn’t you have enough respect for Abby to understand that?

He’ll talk to you about it tomorrow night, but tonight, he checks the medicine cabinet. Just to make sure you have enough aspirin for tomorrow morning.

The next morning goes normally. You make breakfast. Abby gets ready. Mike does the dishes.

He doesn’t want to deal with the aftermath of the upcoming conflict quite yet.

Mike just picked you up from work. You applied extra makeup this morning to cover up the dark circles under your eyes, but Mike knows they’re there.

“So, wanna talk about what happened last night?” He doesn’t even bother hiding the judgment from his tone.

“What happened last night?”

Mike feels a flame of anger roll through his body. He has to take a breath before responding, “Don’t play dumb”

You stop sipping on your coffee and lean against the back of the seat. You look out the window for a moment, like you’re thinking really hard about something.

Mike’s thumbs lightly tap the steering wheel. He can feel his temper simmer under his vertebrae.

You lick your lips, and fiddle with the hem of your shirt, “Okay, but first I want to apologize.”

He stays silent, but he’s a little surprised.

“I’ve been irresponsible, and inconsiderate, and I’m really sorry. It’s not fair for you to have to deal with the fallout of my bullshit.”

Mike agrees, but he’s not sure what he could say without expressing that agreement. So, he stays silent.

You rub your eyes, “Oliver and I broke up.”

Mike knows this. You didn’t tell him, but he lives with you, it’s not that hard to put two and two together. Why does it matter?

“I thought I was gonna spend the rest of my life with him, you know?”

Oh. No. He didn’t.

“I just… I’ve been taking it kind of hard,” you sit up, and your voice gains a bit of confidence, “it’s not an excuse, though. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Mike hears your promise, and releases a long breath he didn’t know he was holding.

You wanted to spend the rest of your life with Oliver. That’s… it makes sense that you’ve been getting drunk a lot.

“It’s okay,” he adjusts his hold on the steering wheel, and keeps his tone soft; like he’s trying to caress you with words, “it’s just with Abby - you know?” he shrugs and allows his sentence to hang in the air.

“No, yeah absolutely, I get it. I’m sorry I put you both in that position.”

Your words sound genuine.

Mike literally feels the fight flood out of his nervous system. The emptiness leftover makes him want to go to sleep.

The thought of the conversation tugged on his brain all day, like he was unconsciously gearing up for a fight, and now that it’s over he feels drained.

The drive stays silent until he arrives at Abby’s school. But it’s not submissive or uncomfortable silence. Mike doesn’t feel suffocated by the lack of conversation.

He’s parked at the front of the school when you talk again.

“Are we okay?” you ask, and the softness of your tone makes Mike melt.

“Yeah,” for the first time in the entire conversation - Mike looks at you - and he’s kind of surprised to find you already looking at him, “Yeah, we’re okay.”

Mike did not expect the apology, but he’s glad he got it.

If he’s being honest, he expected you to justify why you’ve been drinking, but your willingness to take accountability came completely out of left field.

That’s not to say Mike feels the apology was unnecessary. It’s more like, he wanted a justification for your behavior; he wanted to understand why you did what you did before getting truly upset with you, but he didn’t expect you to acknowledge how your crisis affected him. But you did.

It’s like, he went into a restaurant expecting his favorite meal, but instead he gets his favorite meal plus an ingredient that he didn’t know would make the entire meal better.

It makes him feel seen.

It makes him like you more.

After that, you seem more comfortable around Mike, and you don’t go out as often.

If you do, you’re home before midnight, and you’re sober.

If you’re not sober, you call, and let Mike know you’re staying at a friend’s for the night.

You act a bit differently too.

It’s kind of strange, because Mike thought you felt comfortable around him before that conversation, but apparently he underestimated how often you try to keep a professional facade around him and Abby.

But now, you allow him to see you in pajamas.

He didn’t even know you owned pajamas.

They’re cute and baggy; fluffy sweats that pool around your ankles, and a matching sweater.

You buy a shelf for Abby’s art supplies. You put it in the living room, in case she wants to draw while she watches TV.

Mike starts to wear sweats too.