#michael ormewood

The last time you saw Michael Ormewood was approximately 136 hours ago. Not that you’re counting. The only reason you’re pacing in front of the living room window and waiting for him to get home (the only reason you’ll admit to yourself, at least) is because you know he needs someone in his corner. He and Angie were working a murder case that unsurprisingly overlapped with the GBI case Trent and Mitchell were on. While things are far better than they used to be between the four of them, this case threatened the harmony they’ve built. This afternoon, your boyfriend arrested the killer after a chase you’re not supposed to know about. You’ll have to remember to thank Angie for sharing the intel you need.

Finally, hours after sunset, Ormewood’s car pulls into the driveway. It’s completely dark out, so you abandon your post at the window to push the front door open and give Michael light to get inside before you run into the kitchen to make sure dinner is still warm. Standing at the stove, you track his movements by listening to him, by instinct. He comes inside, closes and locks the door, hangs his keys on the hook above the crooked table you built together, and then sighs.

“Hi,” you greet as you step out of the kitchen.

“Hey,” Michael greets softly. He sends you a small smile, then leans forward and braces his hands against the back of the couch to stretch his back.

“I made dinner,” you tell him. You step to his side and lay your hand on his back just as he straightens. “You want something else first? Hot shower? Massage?”

His smile reappears, this time accompanied by his tongue pressing against his cheek and a slight tilt to his head.

“I’m offering because you’re stressed,” you point out after stifling a laugh.

“Really? I’m stressed? Wow, I’m so glad you told me,” he replies sarcastically. “Now I know. How could you tell?”

“Your shoulders are trying to be earrings,” you point out as you drag your index finger along his spine. He shivers against your touch but holds his eyes steady on yours as you add, “And you get snippy when you’re thinking too much. Now, c’mon, let me help.”

Ormewood nods, then allows you to lead him down the hall and to the bedroom. You point at the bed, then turn and leave.

“Okay,” Ormewood murmurs to himself. He sees the shark plushie he bought you at the Georgia Aquarium resting on your pillow and decides to ask it, “What’d I do?”

There’s a soft clattering of dishes in the kitchen, but you reappear before he can call out to ask if you’re okay. You place a tray on his bedside table with a glass of water and two full bottles, a plate of food, and a protein bar.

“What am I?” Ormewood inquires. “A twelve year old boy?”

“You’re acting like one,” you answer brightly. “So, hot shower or massage? Or do you want to eat first?”

Ormewood narrows his eyes at you as he begins unbuttoning his shirt. “How’d you know?” he inquires. “Wait, don’t tell me, it was Polaski.”

“I have no idea what you are referring to,” you lie, fighting to keep your eyes on his face as he tugs his dress shirt off his shoulders.

He tosses it over your head into the hamper, then hooks his fingers in the hem of the plain white shirt he has far too many of.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

Your boyfriend nods, then steps forward and wraps his arms around your waist. “I’m okay,” he promises softly. After he kisses your forehead, he releases you and collapses face-first onto the bed.

“Massage it is, then,” you murmur. “I’ll be right back.”

Ormewood groans pathetically, then shifts to pull a pillow beneath his head. You toss a bottle of lotion onto the bed beside him, and he sighs as if you’ve just come back from the other side of the world rather than the other side of the hall.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

You nod and situate yourself on the bed beside his hips. The expanse of his back draws you in. There are marks you’ve only heard stories about, some he doesn’t even remember getting, and a few scars you tended to the day they appeared. Still, as a whole, he’s nothing more than Michael Ormewood, the man you love, not a conglomeration of his painful experiences.

“What’d you do today?” Ormewood asks as you spread one hand at the base of his spine.

“I thought we weren’t talking,” you murmur, pressing gently into his skin as you drag your hand up toward his shoulders.

“We’re not talking about me,” he explains.

Humming, you move your hands out to feel along his traps and over his shoulder blades, then move down his lats. Ormewood relaxes beneath you, so you withdraw your hands and pump some lotion onto your palm.

“I didn’t do much,” you begin. After rubbing the lotion between your hands, you shift upward and press the heels of your hands into the bottom of his trapezius. Moving upward, you use your thumbs to loosen the tension he’s holding between his shoulders.

“You practice this?” Ormewood mumbles. He spreads his fingers at his side until he feels your leg, and he hooks his hand around your ankle.

“No,” you answer with a chuckle. “But I did look at a back anatomy diagram while I was waiting for you.”

“Nerd,” he scoffs before interrupting himself with a breathy groan.

“Sorry, you were saying?” you taunt. “Can I ask a question and don’t make it weird?”

“Too late.”

“Ha ha. Can I, uh…”

“Do whatever you want.” As long as you keep touching me, he thinks.

You roll your eyes as you move to straddle his hips. Without putting any weight on him, you use the new angle to better access the little connector muscles between his deltoid and lats.

“Marry me,” Ormewood rumbles when you drag your fingers to his side above his ribs.

“This is all it took to get a proposal?”

“Mmhmm.”

Smiling, you focus on loosening his lats. You rub your hands along the muscles, then gently squeeze his sides.

“You have very helpful muscle definition,” you muse as you trace over his obliques.

“I aim to please. What are you doing?”

“Massaging you,” you answer slowly with furrowed brows.

“I mean, why are you sitting like that?”

“Uh, so I don’t crush you.”

“I can handle a little weight, pretty girl. Get comfortable.”

“You need to eat,” you remind him.

“Not yet, I don’t. Hey, I’m stressed. You want to help with that, right?”

“You were stressed. Now I think you’re just embracing your inner house cat and want me to pet you until you get tired of it.”

Ormewood scoffs but doesn’t argue. Slowly, you lower, keeping most of your weight in your knees as you sit on his hamstrings and lean forward to press into his muscles.

“Feel better?” you ask, shifting to get more lotion.

“There were kids,” Ormewood says. “In the suspect’s car.”

You slow, watching his profile as he breathes.

“We knew that he was trying to get back at someone but we didn’t realize just how many innocent people he dragged into this.”

“But you saved them,” you remind him. “You’re always going to be the good guy. And you’re always going to come home to me.”

He goes quiet again, and you lighten the pressure on his back to trace his muscles, circle scars on his skin, and draw a heart. Ormewood’s breathing has evened out, his lashes are against his cheeks, and he hasn’t tried to reclaim your ankle since you last spoke. So, you lean forward and kiss the top of his back.

When you sit up and press into your knees to remove your weight from his legs, Ormewood turns over quickly, then grabs your hips and pushes. You collapse against him with a startled gasp that dissolves into giggles when he wraps his arms around you to keep you in place against his chest.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you,” you promise. “Feel better?”

His stomach rumbles before he answers, “Thanks to you.”

“We should eat.”

Slowly, he pulls you closer, then kisses your nose. “We should do something.”

“After you eat,” you stipulate.

“I think I deserve kisses.”

“You deserve everything you want, but can you please eat first so I don’t have to worry about my handsome, brilliant, hero of a boyfriend passing out while I’ll kissing him?”

Ormewood sighs long-sufferingly, then nods. You clamber off of him and pass him the tray of food. When you move toward the door, Michael protests around a bite of food.

“Where ya goin’?” he mumbles.

“I’ll be back,” you promise.

“That wasn’t an answer!” Michael yells.

An hour later, Ormewood’s phone rings. He pulls away from you long enough to check the caller ID, then tosses his phone off the bed to reclaim your lips.

“Needy,” you murmur against him.

“Nerd,” he replies.