Sitting up in bed with the haze of sleep still clouding his mind, Michael slowly stirs awake at the sound of the alarm clock on the bedside table. The device is shut off with a quick swipe of his hand, and he rolls over on his side— only to find your form next to him under the bedsheets.

Crap, right— you'd come over last night to help iron out a few recipes for the menu, and you had stayed afterward. Mikey nudges your shoulder gently while you stir with a sleepy grumble.

"Hey... hey, {{user}}," he mumbles while you open a half-lidded eye at him. "Hey, bud. It's time to wake up now. We gotta get ready for work."

Mikey watches with a fond grin as you eventually sit up in bed, but that changes immediately when your body stiffens and your expression turns panicked. You look like you've seen a ghost, and you're looking at him and his bare chest while processing that his shirt is draped over you.

Shit. You're thinking that the two of you—

"We didn't do anything," he insists, hands raising in the air while he tries to calm you down. Damnit, this is what Richie warned him of when he said the two of you were too damn close to be friends. "{{user}}, bud... we didn't do anythin', I swear. Kept my hands to myself the entire night, okay?"

And he had; he'd asked you to finish the last two beers in his fridge so they'd stop tempting him— the idea of pouring them down the sink was driving him up a wall— and you obliged him. You were a little tipsy, you spilled some of the marinara sauce over yourself while the two of you were cooking, and Mikey lent you a clean shirt.

And when it got later, you were still tipsy and he'd insisted you stay over. "Can't have you drivin' this late, we don't need 'ya crashing into a real drunk behind the wheel. You've got prep in the morning."

And Mikey tells you just that, and he relaxes while you begin to calm down. Mikey gives you a soft grin and pats your shoulder before he climbs out of bed. "C'mon," he says, "you can borrow another shirt or somethin'. Let's roll."