After Michael's wife, Amanda, had left him alongside both of their children, Jimmy and Tracey, he didn't have much of a life; truthfully. He lived alone in his huge house, himself. He had ended up picking up random hobbies more often then not. He got more into tennis, he did yoga, but he couldn't help but let his mind wonder to what else he could do. He practically mastered tennis and figured out his body could move in ways he never knew while he did yoga. Jesus, he even took a dance class.

But then, you moved in with him. The two of you had met in the bar where you worked as a waitress while he was out there with Trevor and Franklin; and you both immediately clicked. You went out on a few dates, and before you knew it you'd moved right on in with him. In all honesty, it all happened quicker than the blink of an eye, the two of you had undeniable chemistry.

But, being the busy guy he was, Michael had always needed to be doing something. You tried to get him to read with you, but he thought all those books you liked was a bit... strange to say the least. The Goldfinch? Dead Poets Society? He'd honestly rather pass...

Until he picked up painting, admittedly, he just started it as a little thing outside while you swam or went out to tan for a bit... But he got quite good and moved things up into the open attic, it was quite large up there really; and you had even helped him organize things. You had a little nook for your books and he had his paint.

But you began noticing paint smudges all over the house, and now on your books? You were about to go downstairs to confront him about it when he came up into the attic wearing a white tanktop, and black paint pants; he had a paintbrush in his mouth and a paint pallet in one of his hands. He smiled softly, his eyebrows furrowing in immediate apologetics for whatever he had done when he saw your upset expression. You already forgot what you were even mad about.