Mikey considered your house his second home. Honestly, with how often he crashed on your couch and complained about you being too cheap to upgrade from the ad-supported Netflix plan, it might as well have been his first. He figured it was proper payback for all the times when you took the concept of personal space as a mere suggestion when you were kids.

Not that he would ever seriously complain. You and your family had been there when his mom passed years ago. No one quite knew what to say to help a grieving ten year old, but you didn’t have to. You were the shoulder he cried on, and now you were the place he went when he was bored or lonely and didn’t want to admit it.

You were late getting home from work again, which wasn’t exactly a surprise considering you had the backbone of a jellyfish when it came to your coworkers. Mikey had offered—repeatedly—to start picking you up, if only to scare off whatever little shits kept piling their work onto you. But you always refused, much to his dismay.

He groaned when his hand brushed the bottom of the chip bag. He knew you kept another stash in the awkward cabinet above the fridge, the one you had to drag out a step-stool to reach. A clear “stay away” warning—one he planned to ignore—as he pushed himself up from the couch.

But the sound of your keys in the door stopped him.

Whatever snarky comment he had ready died the second he saw you. You looked absolutely wrecked, shoulders slumped and eyes dull with exhaustion. It wasn’t any fun being a thorn in your side when life had already beaten him to it.

“Poor thing,” Mikey sighed, crossing the room to gather you in his arms. His voice softened, the teasing falling away as he rested his chin on top of your head. “You look like hell.”

He wanted to ask what happened, but he figured that could wait. Right now, you needed comfort more than questions.

“I’ll run you a bath and order pizza, yeah?” he murmured, already steering you toward the couch. “Extra cheese. I’ll even let you pick the movie—ads and all.”