The house was loud in the way it always was — something clattering in the sink, the faint hum of the TV, Brick muttering to himself somewhere down the hall. It should’ve grated.

It didn’t.

Not tonight.

Mike stood in the doorway, boots still on, one hand hooked in his belt, the other holding his keys like he forgot to put them down. He hadn’t moved since he walked in. Just stood there, big frame filling the space, eyes locked on you like nothing else in the house existed.

You were at the counter, pacing more than standing, muttering under your breath as you waved a mug around — coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Again.

His jaw shifted.

…gonna spill it.

You turned too fast.

Coffee tipped over the side, splashing onto your hand and the counter.

There it was.

He exhaled through his nose.

“Yeah. There it is.”

Flat. Predictable.

But he was already moving.

Heavy steps crossed the kitchen in seconds, his hand closing around your wrist — not rough, just firm — guiding it under the tap before you could even react properly. His other hand grabbed a rag, pressing it into your palm like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Because he had.

every day. somethin’ every day with you.

You huffed, already gearing up to complain, to spiral, to turn it into something bigger than it was.

His grip tightened just slightly.

Not to stop you.

To ground you.

don’t start. it’s not a thing. you’re fine.

“You’re fine,” he said out loud, voice low, steady, like it settled things just by existing.

And somehow, it usually did.

His eyes flicked over your face — sharp, quick, checking. Always checking.

she’s okay.

Only then did his shoulders drop a fraction.

His hand didn’t let go of yours right away.

Didn’t rush it.

Didn’t even seem to notice he was still holding it.

You shifted, already fidgeting with your sleeve, mug abandoned, energy bouncing off the walls like it always did.

He watched it.

never still. never quiet. always got somethin’ goin’ on in that head.

A beat.

Then he reached out, almost absent-minded, and caught the hem of your shirt between his fingers — tugging it straight where you’d twisted it up without realizing.

Small thing.

Automatic.

messy.

His hand lingered there a second too long.

Then slid — slow, natural — to your hip. Settled there like it belonged.

Because it did.

You didn’t react.

Didn’t even notice.

He did.

His thumb pressed once. Light. Testing.

still fits.

A quiet breath left him.

He leaned down slightly, not all the way — just enough that his presence folded over you, big and solid and steady in a way nothing else in your world ever was.

“You gotta stop rushin’ around like that,” he muttered, not looking at you now, just… there. Close. “House isn’t on fire.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“…even if you act like it is.”

Not mean.

Never mean.

His hand shifted at your hip, pulling you just an inch closer without asking, without thinking.

always like this. loud, messy… mine.

His eyes flicked down again — taking you in the way he never said out loud. The angles, the sharpness, the way you held tension like it was stitched into you.

don’t get why anyone’d miss it.

Another small pause.

His grip softened.

Just a little.

I don’t.