#michael k

It doesn't feel strange to swing your legs out of his bed, or make it for him, tucking the sheets back where they belong and throwing the pillows back into place. It doesn't feel strange to grab Michael's discarded shirt from the night before and throw it over your head, the hem hitting your mid thigh from how big he has to get his shirts (always a larger size due to his height). It doesn't feel strange to shove your feet in his slippers, so large you have to slide your feet because if you lift them they'll fall out and it doesn't feel weird to leave his bedroom like that to find him.

He's in the kitchen, shirtless (which in hindsight seems like a bit of a safety hazard), sweatpants slung low on his hips, tattoo on full display, chain glinting in the early morning light. Michael's stood at the stove, frying pan in front of him, a bowl of pancake batter next to him, flour all over the place where he clearly messily put the batch together.

There's already a pancake on the pan when he twists towards you at the sound of your feet, his slippers, sliding across the wood floor. Spatula in hand he freezes, pancake forgotten on the hob at the sight of you there because fuck...you look good, like out of his league good, like beyond him good.

It takes him a few moments just to process that he's seeing your bare legs in the daylight, that those are his slippers (way too big) on your feet, and most importantly that the only thing covering you right now is his shirt from the night before.

"Is that my shirt?" He's pretty his brain has short circuited as he turns fully towards you, pan forgotten, spatula held aloft.

You tug at it, until it pulls away from your body, the hem rising in a way that has him salivating and not for pancakes. " You mean this old thing?" It's coy, it's ridiculous, it's so fucking hot to him the way you smirk at him underneath your lashes and he's a goner. He's just some goofy loser and you're that chick and he's not entirely sure he's going to recover.

His inability to think, to function, to even respond, mouth feeling like cottonwool, is interrupted by the loud ring of the fire alarm as the pancake on the stove starts to smoke into a blackened husk having been left unattended for too long.

"Shit!" He's frantic waving the spatula around in an attempt to clear the smoke as he pulls the pan off the hob. You think a little clearer, opening the back door to let the smoke dissipate and disperse.

"Sorry..." He grins sheepish, shoulders up to his ears, ruffling his curls once the alarm stops ringing. "I...just wanted to make you breakfast..."

"I'm that distracting, huh?" You're still coy, his bout of goofiness, his mess up, doing nothing to turn you off of him. You close the space between the two of you, hands trailing up his chest, fingers curling into the gold chain he wears.

He practically gulps, swallowing harshly, Adam's apple bobbing. "Uh huh...you're like so out of my league it's actual insane right now, baby."

"You're literally a NHL Star." You roll your eyes at him with a grin as his hands fall to your hips, fingers flexing like he can't help himself.

"Yeah, but you're you."

It has you flushing, face heating, eyes dropping to this chest because he's sweet. Sweeter than any guy you've dated in the past...it's nice. To feel appreciated like you're something special and not just an ordinary person.

"Well, I think you're pretty neat."

"Neat?" Michael laughs at you, tension broken and it's like he remembers that you're just a person too. That no matter how attractive he thinks you are, he first asked you out because you seemed fun and goofy and not because of your legs or the way your hair looks in the morning.