#berzatto

There was that smile of his. His fucking smile which showed up in his eyes first, then his lips. It makes your knees buckle.

“I laid out some dresses on the bed, can you take a look at em’ and let me know which ones you like??” Unplugging your curling iron you began to brush apart your curls.

“Yeah, I can do that sweets.” Mikey’s undiagnosed ADHD fuse was as short as short could be, but for you, his patience was untimed. He walked over to your shared bed, lifting up the various hangers. “Can I see em’ on ya, doll? When’d you get these??”

Joining Mikey, you began to take different hangers from him, holding them up to your frame to envision how each piece would look on you.

“Sug and I went shopping a couple of days ago, wanted to surprise you.” Trying to wipe the smirk on your face was no use with Mikey’s extensive knowledge of your micro facial expressions.

He scoffs, knowing immediately what you were trying to do. There’s no downplaying the fact that you and Mikey fuck on a more than regular basis, in various locations and times of day. The walk-in at the resto - which is probably one of Mikey’s favourite places to fuck you as he loves seeing your nipples get so hard from the cold - has seen more than just Carmy’s mommy-issue coded meltdowns.

“That right?” Mikey turned to look at you out of the corner of his eyes. A look of micheviousness was threaded into his crow’s feet, the wrinkles of wisdom - named by you - that surrounded the brown iris’ which bore into you. You clearly had an idea in that naughty brain of yours and you know it will be met well by him; oftentimes, it was Mikey who was trying to catch up with your libido, not the other way around.

“Here, lemme try this one, it’s one of my favourites.” You held out a hanger which held a white with blue florals milkmaid dress, prompting Mikey to hold it out in front of him.

Mikey inspected the dress, attempting to envision it hugging your curves, cupping your breasts. Getting so lost in his imagination, he realized a second too late that you were undressing yourself, revealing a white lacy push-up bra with matching panties. Motioning with your hands for Mikey to hand you the dress, his eyes were running you up and down, an electric bolt immediately rushing to form his erection.

“Can I have the dress please” you giggled, reaching towards him to start removing the fabric from where it was held. “Hey, hey” Mikey moved the dress away from your grasp, throwing it on the bed to free his hands. “When did you get this?!” Hooking a finger in your panties and rubbing a calloused thumb over your hip bone, he cherished the figure of the woman he loved.

“In an effort to not ruin this moment, let’s say Sug and I split up in Victoria Secret…” As best friends, you couldn’t involve Sug in your sex life as much as she can you in hers, for obvious reasons.

Mikey was lasered focus, eye-fucking you mercilessly when something switched. “Try the dress on. Now.” Chuckling to yourself, you took the dress off the hanger, knowing your plan to bring out Mikey’s dominance was successful. And while you loved to call the shots - and, most of the time, bossed around all three of Mikey, Richie, and Carmy - you loved to be submissive equally as much; especially for a man as manly as Mikey.

Slipping in one leg at a time, you knew damn well time was of the essence if you planned to get to Donna’s on time. However, you preferred to not get bent over Mikey’s childhood desk in his childhood room with his entire family one level below, unwillingly in close proximity to your primal activities.

Adjusting the puffy sleeves to your liking and adjusting your boobs within the dress, you turned around to face the mirror, pivoting from side to side to see how your bum looked. Looking at Mikey through the mirror, you swore you could see the blood rush out of his face as he gulped.

“Cute right?” you held out your hand for him to take, knowing he’d ask you to give him a twirl, to which you obliged without hesitation.

“I want these to be clean so I can wear them when we get back.” You slid your panties off, flicking them off with one of your feet in Mikey’s direction just to immediately return to the bathroom to get ready.

Getting a rise out of Mikey was your favourite thing to do. While he was an expert at anything regarding your facial expressions, you were comparable in skill, noticing every twitch of his jaw and bob of his prominent Adam’s apple as you exponentially turned him on.

Out of the corner of your eye you could feel Mikey deciphering his next move. The pointy ends of your gold hoops slid into your pierced holes, making you question whether a different earring may work with your outfit better. Deep in thought, you didn’t notice Mikey behind you until he stood behind you, his cock growing stronger by the millisecond as it pressed into your ass, his large hand single-handedly wrapping around your throat as he gave a slight squeeze.

“I would be careful if I were you, doll” his whisper lingered next to your ear before he nibbles on the top of your ear, gently biting as he pulls away.

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I have come out of hiding with an imagine I’ve had brewing for quite some time… let me know if you’d like part 2! I’m not fulfilling requests at the moment but feel free to send in ideas for Mikey imagines :-)

Also, I DO NOT and WILL NOT ever use AI for my fan fiction. I also do not give anyone permission to repurpose or use my writing outside of its intended entertainment and pleasure purposes.

it had been over a month. you were avoiding this comically awkward conversation with the new owner of the beef like it was the plague. it hadn’t even been six months since the beloved owner of the beef died, yet you were going to discuss the unpaid debt that was lingering over your head. the entire time you crossed the street you wanted to retreat and slip a letter under their door when no one was there, but you had to take the professional and empathetic route. you toted the chocolate chip cookies wrapped terribly in foil from as sew it seams, the local tailoring business your mother passed down to you, to the beef. you knew they weren’t open for business which was to your advantage as you knocked on the door.

you rocked on your heels for a moment, thinking that instead of knocking again you would rather turn around and quickly go back to your territory. though as that thought ran through your head, the click of the lock was heard, and you could hear richie’s laughter through the glass.

“hey! y/n’s back!” he announced, patting you a bit too roughly on your shoulder upon entering. he always spoke with a bellow in his tone. you blamed him for the reason the restaurant was always so incredibly loud during their bustling hours.

you gave a sheepish smile, not having spoken to him since before mikey’s death. it was refreshing to see his face nonetheless; it was comforting to know that some parts of the restaurant had stayed the same after the devastation of death and mentions of addiction washed over the place.

“hey, richie,” you said calmly, refraining from using as many decibels as he did. “is the new owner in today?”

he scoffed bringing you in close to his side as he guided you through the restaurant. “you act like you haven’t ever been here before, lighten up.”

you gave a considerate nod, though your mind was playing different scenarios about how the conversion would go.

“the new owner is mikey’s younger brother.”

“i’m glad you guys didn't have to sell. i know this place means a lot to you, richie.” you were sincere in your words.

you looked around; it was different from the times you had come inside to talk to mikey. although the family restaurant had generational grime and scum stuck to some places, you couldn’t deny that it had somewhat of a new shine.

richie weaved you through the slurry of cooks, most of whom you had met before, though they were so focused on preparation they barely looked up from their stations. everything seemed more uniform, now a seemingly maintained order from many disasters that you had been guided through before.

this new owner might actually have a chance at turning the old restaurant around with the way things were looking.

“cousin!” that voice again. was richie ever just alerting one person when he spoke? he banged on the outside of the office door; you were still holding the wrapped cookies out, just ready to give them away to their recipient.

the door opened and carmen pointed to his cell phone which was pressed against his ear while glaring at richie, though his entire face softened as he saw you. being an ass to richie was one thing, but upon seeing you, he couldn't keep up with his pissed-off demeanor.

he now had no comprehension skills with the person on the other line. he mumbled something about calling them back later.

“cousin, this is y/n, she’s the seamstress across the street,” richie said when carmen put his phone down. he extended his tattooed hand and then took it back, noticing they were full of the mystery wrapped in foil.

“carmy berzatto,” he introduced himself, flashing a quick and friendly smile though his piercing blue eyes were still wandering over you. his phone was moving away from his ear in slow motion, acting like any of his movements would spook you.

he seemed to stare too long, and you seemed to be the same amount of starstruck because it caused richie to startle you when he patted your back again.

“don’t be a total jagoff to her; she’s nice.” richie said, clearing his throat, wondering what was in the air between the both of you. his brows furrowing at the awkward stances and body language.

“yeah, cousin, thank you,” carmen remarked sarcastically, holding his hands up in defense. “i know how to act, thank you.”

“these are for mikey,” you had to start again when his eyes widened. “these are for you but like i’m really sorry to hear about mikey,” you said all of this a little too quickly, with a little too much rambling. you practiced this conversation in your head too many times and now you were screwing it up. you jutted the cookies in front of you further to offer them to him.

oh yes, let me just remind you that your brother is dead and that he can’t eat these goddamn cookies.

richie gave a sharp inhale and only nodded his head. “okay, you two have fun with that.” he clapped his hands together and pointed at both of them as he took his leave.

carmen tilted his head slightly, taking the package from you, and opened it to reveal the cookies. he had no problems tasting one in front of you. “sympathy cookies?” he laughed and shook the other half of the cookie in his hand. “it’s actually damn good.”

you didn't realize the compliment you had received from him. you didn't know he was some high-class chef who once studied in copenhagen. you only knew him as mikey’s brother.

“thanks, but really more like cookies that are supposed to not make me seem like a bitch when i tell you that your brother owes me money,” you said, trying not to make eye contact, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

carmen was holding back a nervous chuckle. what else was there to do in this situation? mikey’s unpaid debt kept being passed down to him anytime someone new wanted to speak with him. he couldn't contain himself when you finished speaking, a smile riddling his face. another monthly payment would be in his future. he wiped the corners of his mouth as he finished the cookie and stepped into his office waiting for you to take a seat in the cluttered space.

you could barely understand how he managed to work in the small office. there was stuff everywhere, like mikey never left it. it was a drastic change from the clean kitchen and the front of house. he set the cookies down while grabbing a notepad.

mikey was unorganized and chaotic whether he was always like that or only became like that because of his addiction, most people would never know the answer to that question. were the spontaneous and irrational decisions truly because he was a bad businessman or because unprescribed pills influenced him to become a functioning addict with overwhelming amounts of charisma? and although he had shitty business practices…he was a good guy; no one could deny it.

“uh, so how much did mikey owe you?” carmen asked writing your name at the top of the paper. he seemed to have had this conversation with a lot of people before.

“three thousand, but he already paid a third.”

the entire storefront window had been busted the night mikey decided it would be a good idea to have a barbecue get-together in front of the beef with a baseball tournament attached. as mikey stepped up to the spray-painted x on the ground he forgot, or was too drunk to remember, that he couldn’t swing like was in the world series bringing the cubs to victory. he was in a confined parking lot, and that ball slammed like a mother fucker and busted your window. it decided to hit the weakest spot and shatter that bitch. well, that’s how he told you the story anyway. that late night call was confusing to follow, but you showed up to the restaurant in your snoopy pajama pants and worked out a deal that he would pay you monthly to reimburse you for the window so the insurance on your respective businesses wouldn’t rise.

somehow, even through your upset, you found yourself comforted by mikey’s story and many apologies. two businesses across from each other, and you had no issues with him. after your mom died, he occasionally brought you leftover food. he was nice, a little eccentric and loud, but nice. that same night, he and his drunken buddies managed to put a tarp over the window and gifted you with a number to a glass repair specialist. mikey stayed a while after, just telling you how he appreciated you for not being angry and gave you some considerate words about your mother. “she was a good person to talk to when nothing seemed to go right.” those words stuck to your heart when he said them.

carmen gave a soft hum at the amount, pinning the note with the amount to a semi-cleared spot where it wasn’t hidden by any other scrap pieces of paper with his terrible handwriting . “he seems to owe a lot of people a lot of money.”

“he started paying some of it, but—” you stopped yourself and wondered how many times you could possibly mention that mikey was dead. you pressed the knuckle of your index finger to your lips and bit the inside of your cheek.

“—he died.” carmen finished the sentence for you and gave a stifled snort.

“i’m really sorry, my mom is dead, and like you know she left me that sewing shop, and then your brother like totally fucked my window and i had to come out of pocket to fix it, and then like i over drafted my bank account because some asshole decided it would be funny to steal one of my mannequins when they were repairing the window and–” you took a deep breath holding your temples. carmen just stared at you while you started to ramble again, a deep belly laugh surfacing.

he tapped his pen against his desk. “oh, yeah, that’s so fucked…like really fucked.” he was massaging the center of his forehead as he tried to think. “and your mom, i–”

you cut him off, waving your hands with a stutter, trying to find the correct words to speak. “i think we can both agree that it really sucks that they’re gone. i was trying to avoid talking about the whole ‘death and dying thing,’ but apparently, the more i think about not talking about it, the more it comes up.”

you and carmen stared at each other for a moment as he shuffled loose papers around on his desk.

“i’m going to get you your money, but i don’t know how much i can give you every month and, um,” carmen exhaled, looking into your eyes. “i promise i’m good for my word.”

you stared at him blankly unknowing of what to do. the verbal agreement between you and mikey had been easy, yet concerning, now you were making a similar agreement with his younger brother. you didn’t know mikey well, and you didn’t know his brother at all. he seemed genuine in his attempt to reimburse you, but you were still cautious about entering another verbal contract especially after the payments on the old one were sporadic and inconsistent. so inconsistent, that you had to go to the restaurant to hash it out with mikey. it was never loud or rude, but you’d leave with whatever cash he had in his wallet and then feel guilty for asking about the payments in the first place. money always seemed to be an awkward conversation.

“i can see it on your face that you aren’t convinced,” he observed, sitting back in his chair. “i’m not like mikey, and the fact that i’m not more like him is shitty because everyone liked him, but i hope you can like me enough to believe me.”

you clicked your tongue, trying to devise and formulate the correct words. “it’s really not like that,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “i just want this behind me, i guess.” you knew it sounded ridiculous. the window had been fixed, and you weren’t repaid, but it just seemed like an unclosed chapter. one where your mother was newly deceased and sending you signals to be more patient with people and to have a little leeway with those who needed it. you couldn’t deny that you were living by the mysterious feelings your damaged heart was signaling to your mind.

your hands fiddled with the chain of your necklace, looking at him with a sense of relief. the conversation was over, the hard part at least.

“no, i get it,” carmen said almost immediately, like he had some understanding of your internal dilemma.

“just pay me back when you can,” you compromised, a single nod following your words. “but please don’t make me keep asking after i leave.”

carmen’s cheeks lifted, a crooked smile appearing on his face as he tapped the note above him. “i promise, you’re right here until we’re even.” he emphasized. his eyes lingering over the note and then back to you.

he walked you out. you trailed behind him like it was unknown territory when in actuality the only thing unknown was him. when he cracked the door for you to leave he was pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. he let you exit first, following behind to light his smoke.

within the following few weeks, carmen had made his trek to your side of the street. two clear containers of food from the restaurant were held in his right hand. wedged under one container was an envelope. he set them on the counter, your head peeking out from behind the curtain as you heard the motion sensor go off. he had come after lunch before the restaurant had to reopen for dinner.

his forehead had a sheen of sweat across it, a dish towel was still hanging off his apron, and his curly hair had seen the effects of fast-paced work from their lunch hours.

“oh, hey, i was just gonna drop these and go,” his thumb pointed behind him as he tried to arrange the containers in a neater setting.

“yeah, totally, thanks,” you mumbled, looking at the envelope he was sliding closer. he stared at the envelope and exhaled. he tapped the bludging center where the bills were mostly confined.

“look, more is coming, but don’t think you’ll have to remind me because you won’t. i really just, fuck sorry, i just mean that i’m going to keep paying you.”

“carmy, you’re fine,” you assured him, beginning to inspect the containers. crispy thick-cut fries. one was broken in half; the center was pure white and fluffy and the exterior was golden. in the second container a mixture of beef, with dark brown drippings, and a vibrant array of bell peppers and onions.

“and the food, that’s just leftovers from lunch.” carmen examined them again. “marcus didn’t have any more bread, but you can put the beef on the fries,” carmen patted his pockets over his navy apron until he felt plastic cutlery, it was still in its transparent plastic sheath.

“thank you,” you took the cutlery from his hands, his fingertips brushing over yours.

carmen stalled for a moment then took his hand back. “i gotta go work on dinner prep,” his hand brushed back his curls and he patted the counter. “but, it’s no problem, like no big deal at all or whatever, just thought it would be better than wasting food,” he explained, he cringed slightly at his wording and then even more when he noticed he did it outwardly. though, you didn't comment. you pretended to be focused on opening the container of fries and beef.

as he exited your shop he could hear the rustling of the plastic cutlery coming open.

each payment after that was similar, though he managed to stay for a few moments longer each time he entered. the food only became exceedingly more tasty, though your favorite meals were always the ones where he stuck around to see you have a bite. it was like a sense of pride washed over him when you praised him for his excellent cooking.

he told you of his future ambitions with the beef, where he previously worked, talked of the invisible cat and living on a boat, hell, he even told you about his fucked up family and terrible anxiety. you didn't understand why it was so easy to talk to him, but that made conversation with him even more desirable. he might not have been as confident or as self-assured as mikey, but remembering that he said he wasn't like mikey was far from the truth. he was likable, but it was easier to be unlikeable, and carmy berzatto in the fuckery of his mind marketed himself as the awkward shy brother who didn't think he could be likeable. maybe that's why you took such a liking to him each time your conversations became longer.

it was the middle of the month, and you were waiting for him. hand sewing some loose buttons to a dress shirt at the counter, expecting that any second the head chef of the beef would come walking into the shop with a new container and final installment of money for the storefront window. he never came to chat, and you were left sewing buttons with no chef to talk to.

your foot was kicking the bottom of the counter gently as you sewed wondering where he was each time you made another loop through the buttonhole. the entire time the hours between lunch and dinner ticked down, you were confused as to why you were so disappointed in his no-show. that funny feeling you got when he'd introduce the leftovers to you and the feeling of being flustered when he devised a never-ending ramble to cover the fact the complimented you. your mind wasn't even set on the final payment he owed you, only on him.

maybe you sensed that since this was his final payment you'd lose the connection you had enjoyed so much. the quick quips, witty remarks, mindless cursing—you didn't want any of it to end.

you decided to walk over after your shop closed promptly at six o’clock, well maybe five fifty-eight today, only because you were itching to talk to him again.

you were in the back of the line of very hungry customers, even as you waited outside you could hear richie’s voice directing orders and sending bagged food in every direction. it didn't take much convincing for richie to stop what he was doing and tell carmen that you were there to see him.

now carmen had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth the moment that you were in the back of the restaurant with him next to old crates and the dumpster.

“i'm sorry, today was fucked. like so fucked, and your money i swear it’s on my desk,” he was frantic, holding his hands up and waving them as he spoke. “i got so caught up in whatever the fuck today was.”

you let him go on, though you couldn't stop a smile tugging on the corners of your mouth when he spoke. he paused his minor freakout, a puzzled look on his face. “this isn't about the money is it?” his voice lowered as he took another drag of his cigarette to calm him.

“i wanted to ask you to go out with me, like not just hanging out in my dead mom’s shop… more than just bringing me money your brother owed me more than just eating leftovers,” you stammered, although you were trying to contain your smile. “like actually doing something.”

carmen avoided eye contact for a moment, flicking the ash from his cigarette. he scratched the back of his neck, his hand holding the back of his neck, the veins in his muscular arm showing.

“you came over here to ask me out?” he was stunned but not offended. he didn't think getting sydney to watch his station would end with him getting a proposal for a date. “like deadass?” carmen was beaming whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“so?” you proposed again.

“yeah,” carmen had a quick nod, finishing his cigarette. as he stamped it out he seemed more relaxed. you had given him a false sense of confidence with your proposal. he felt “yeah, totally, yeah,” he hummed for a moment, until he looked at you again.

The Berzatto house was exactly what you expected it to be on Christmas Eve.

Loud.

Chaotic.

Somehow both falling apart and holding together at the same time.

You’d known the family long enough that none of it surprised you anymore. The yelling, the laughing, Richie showing up with an opinion nobody asked for, Donna moving around the kitchen like she was fighting a war.

It was home.

Which was probably why you found yourself hiding in the pantry with Michael.

Not hiding from the chaos, exactly.

More like hiding from the fact that being around him always made you feel like you were one stupid comment away from admitting something you’d both been pretending not to notice.

“You know,” you whispered, leaning against the shelf, “for someone who claims to hate being told what to do, Carmen really does look like he was born to get bossed around.”

Mikey looked at you, eyes widening dramatically.

“Whoa.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“That’s my little brother you’re talking about.”

You waited.

A grin slowly pulled at his mouth.

“You’re not wrong though.”

You laughed, trying to hold it back.

“Mikey.”

“What? I love the kid. I do. But c’mon.” He shook his head, hands moving as he talked like they always did. “The guy walks around like someone handed him a clipboard and said, ‘Congratulations, you’re responsible now.’”

You snorted.

“That’s literally him.”

“Exactly!”

He pointed at you like you’d just solved a complicated math problem.

“See? You get it.”

That was the thing about Mikey.

He made you feel like you were in on some secret joke with him.

Like out of everyone in the room, he picked you.

The pantry door suddenly swung open.

Carmen stood there, staring at both of you.

You froze.

Mikey froze.

Then Mikey slowly looked at you.

You looked back.

Neither of you said anything.

“C’mon,” Carmen said flatly.

“What?” Mikey asked, completely innocent.

“You two are annoying.”

You gasped.

“Excuse me?”

Carmen looked between the two of you.

“You’re worse together.”

Mikey put a hand over his chest, offended.

“That’s a crazy thing to say about two beautiful, charming people.”

Carmen rolled his eyes.

“You’re both idiots.”

Then he walked away.

The second he disappeared, you and Mikey burst out laughing.

“Beautiful and charming?” you repeated.

Mikey shrugged, leaning against the shelves.

“I mean. I said what I said.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He grinned.

“Still hanging out with me though.”

You didn’t have an answer for that.

Because he was right.

After a moment, you moved and hopped up onto the counter inside the pantry, your legs swinging slightly.

Mikey watched you.

Not in the way most people watched.

Mikey paid attention.

He noticed everything.

The little things.

The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were trying not to smile. The way you always stole the pickles off the snack plates. The way you’d show up for this family even when you technically didn’t have to.

“You know,” he said softly.

You looked at him.

“What?”

He stepped closer, resting his hands on the counter beside you.

“You got a real bad habit.”

You smiled.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Making yourself too comfortable in my family’s pantry.”

You laughed.

“Your family’s pantry?”

“Yeah.”

“Not your pantry?”

He tilted his head.

“Well, I mean…”

His smile turned into something softer.

“Could be.”

The air shifted.

Just slightly.

Because that was always how it was with Mikey.

Everything was a joke.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.

You looked down at your hands.

“You flirt with everyone, you know.”

Mikey scoffed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“Name one person.”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Because you couldn’t.

His smile grew.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You are such a pain.”

“And yet.”

“And yet what?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“And yet you’re sitting in my pantry on Christmas Eve talking to me.”

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And for a second, the jokes disappeared.

There was just Michael.

The guy everyone loved.

The guy everyone worried about.

The guy who carried so much more than he ever let anyone see.

“You know you could just tell me when you’re being serious,” you whispered.

His smile faded a little.

Not completely.

Mikey always had a smile ready.

But you knew him.

You knew when it was real.

And when it was something he used to hide.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

His fingers tapped against the counter.

“I could.”

A beat passed.

“But then what would I do with all these great jokes?”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“You’ve got flour on your face,” he said.

You touched your cheek. “Where?”

“Right—” He stepped closer. Then closer still, until his knees bumped the cabinet between your dangling feet.

“Here. Let me.” His thumb brushed your cheekbone.

Slow. Deliberate. Not wiping anything away.

Your breath caught. “Is there actually flour?”

“Maybe.” His hand didn’t move. His thumb traced down to the corner of your mouth. “Maybe not.”

“That’s a bold move, Mikey.”

“I’m a bold guy.”

His other hand landed on your knee. Just resting there. Casual. Like it belonged.

Neither of you spoke. The kitchen noise filled the silence—Donna yelling about the roast, Richie’s laugh booming, Carmen’s miserable protests. All of it felt very far away.

Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “You gonna stand there with your hand on my knee all night, or you got a plan?”

Michael’s eyes flicked down to your mouth. “I’ve had a plan for about seven years.”

“Seven years and you never executed.”

“I’m executing now.”

His hand slid up. Past your knee. Over the thin fabric of your tights.

His palm was warm and broad and his fingers pressed into the meat of your thigh with a confidence that made your stomach drop.

“This okay?” His voice had gone quieter. Rougher.

You nodded. Swallowed. “Yeah.”

Your legs parted without permission. Just an inch. But he noticed. Of course he noticed.

Michael stepped between them like he’d been invited to dinner.

Both hands on your thighs now. Thumbs tracing circles through your tights. His face level with yours.

Close enough that you could see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the one he got falling off a skateboard when you were kids.

“You know how many times i’ve almost kissed you?” he asked.

“How many?”

“Lost count.” His breath was warm on your lips.

“That night at the lake. Richie’s graduation party. Your birthday two years ago when you were drunk on tequila and kept touching my arm.”

“I wasn’t that drunk.”

“I know that too.”

His mouth hovered there. Not kissing. Just—waiting.

Your hands came up to his chest. The wool of his sweater was scratchy under your palms. His heart was pounding.

“What’s stopping you now?” you asked.

“Checking for consent.”

“You’ve got it.”

He kissed you.

Not gentle. Not tentative. Seven years of waiting crashed into your mouth all at once. His tongue swept past your lips and his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to leave marks through the nylon.

Your fingers twisted into his sweater. Pulled him closer. He groaned into your mouth—a low, needy sound that shot straight down your spine.

His hips pressed against the cabinet. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into his lower back.

“Jesus,” he breathed against your jaw. “You taste like—”

“Cinnamon?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Stole a cookie earlier.”

He laughed. Then he was kissing your neck, your collarbone, the dip of your throat above your sweater.

His stubble scraped your skin in a way that made your eyes roll back.

His hands were everywhere. Skimming up your sides. Palming your waist. Sliding under the hem of your sweater to find bare skin.

“Michael,” you gasped.

“Mm.”

“Your family’s in the next room.”

“Don’t care.”

“I care. Your mom—ah.”

His teeth grazed your earlobe. “My mom’s busy terrorizing Carmen.”

“Richie could—”

“Richie’s an idiot.”

His fingers found the waistband of your tights. Tugged.

You grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Taking these off.”

“You can’t—”

He dropped to his knees.

Right there on the pantry floor, between sacks of flour and boxes of pasta, Michael Berzatto knelt in front of you like you were something sacred.

His hands pushed your skirt up. His mouth pressed against the inside of your knee through the nylon.

“Just a taste,” he said, looking up at you. “That’s all I need.”

“You’re insane.”

“Little bit.”

His teeth caught the fabric at your inner thigh. Tore.

The nylon split with a sound like ripping paper.

“Michael! No!”

But you were laughing. God help you, you were laughing, and so was he, his shoulders shaking as he kissed the newly exposed skin.

Your thigh.

Higher.

The sensitive crease where leg met hip.

His mouth hovered over your inner thigh, lips brushing the sensitive skin where the torn tights gaped open.

He pressed a kiss there. Soft.

Then another, higher, trailing up toward the edge of your underwear.

“Just a little taste,” he murmured against your skin.

“That’s all I’m asking for.”

You were about to say something—maybe yes, maybe no, you hadn’t decided yet—when the pantry door swung open.

Michael froze.

Richie stood in the doorway, a bottle of bourbon in one hand, his mouth already open to say something.

He stopped.

His eyes went wide. Took in the scene—Michael on his knees between your legs, your skirt bunched up around your hips, the torn tights, the flush on your face.

“What the fuck,” Richie said.

Michael was on his feet in an instant.

He stepped in front of you, blocking you from view, his body a wall between you and the door.

You scrambled to pull your skirt down, to cover the evidence, your heart hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears.

“Oh shit,” Michael said. “Richie, this isn’t what it looks like—”

“The fuck it isn’t!” Richie’s voice boomed through the kitchen.

He was laughing now, that loud obnoxious laugh that carried through the whole house.

“Holy shit! Mikey! In the pantry! On Christmas Eve!”

“Richie, keep your voice down—”

“SUGAR!” Richie bellowed. “CARMEN! GET IN HERE!”

Michael’s hand shot out, grabbing Richie’s arm.

“What are you doing, man?”

“What am I doing? What are you doing? Eating her out in your mom’s pantry while she’s making the goddamn roast?”

Footsteps. Heavy ones. And then Carmen appeared behind Richie, looking annoyed, a whisk still in his hand.

“What’s all the yelling—oh.” He stopped. His eyes darted from Michael to you, still hidden behind him, to the torn tights peeking out from under your skirt.

“Oh, man,” Carmen said, his face twisting. “Are you fucking eating her out in here?”

“No!” you and Michael said at the same time, too fast, too loud.

“We were just—I was helping her with—she had flour on her—” Michael stammered.

Richie doubled over, slapping his knee. “Flour! Yeah, flour on her thighs! I saw the tights, Mikey! You ripped ‘em open like a bag of chips!”

“We weren’t doing anything!” you tried, but your voice came out shaky, and Richie’s laugh only got louder.

“I’m telling everyone,” Richie announced, already turning.

“I’m telling the whole family. Mikey Berzatto finally got his seven-year crush and he did it in the pantry like a damn animal.”

Michael groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Richie, I swear to God—”

But Richie was already gone, his voice ringing through the house: