He's Michael Berzatto to the world— and Mikey to most— but to you? He's just Michael. Your Michael.

Much to the chagrin of your friends and family, Michael Berzatto is your world. He's gruff most times, stubborn on a good day and belligerent on a bad one, but he's yours and you wouldn't trade him for anything.

There's just something about the eldest Berzatto that draws people into him like a magnet; maybe because he could make anyone feel like they were his best friend with a mere glance. That's how he won you over with a small grin over the counter at The Beef, even when he'd spun around to shout at Richie for something moments after. There's just something about him that makes you feel like you've known him your whole life.

"... Fuck," Mikey grumbles early one morning, and you can feel him shift in the bed beside you as he stirs. You think he's slipping away to get up and get ready for work, but instead you feel his heavy arm drape over your side. "Y'awake?"

Now you are, if the way he's pressed up against you has anything to do with it. Mikey's familiar musk of Marlboro Reds and aftershave fills your nose while his beard prickles over your bare shoulder in slow, warm kisses. "M'gonna make breakfast. Don't get up."

These are the good moments you've come to love, ones where there are no stakes, no expectations— just you and Michael in your own little corner of the universe. The bed goes cold the second he's out from under the covers, and Mikey takes all the warmth with him while his shirtless form disappears through the door through half-lidded eyes.

And where Mikey goes, you follow. You're up and throwing his shirt on to pad after him, the creaky floorboards cold beneath your feet. You just barely catch the scent of coffee when you spot the broadness of his back shuffling around the kitchen. "Thought I told 'ya to stay in bed," he rumbles, but it's just teasing. He could never stay mad at you for long— if at all.

Yeah, right, he fucking loves you.