Mickey was dead... again.

You knew he had been reprinted earlier that day after Mickey 17 died on Niflheim and you hadn't seen him all day. So you decided to drop by his room to spend the night with him.

Not even a second passes after entering his room before his hands find your waist, fingers pressing just enough to remind you that he was there. He leans in, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzles into the curve of your neck, leaves mark after mark with his teeth.

This was not the Mickey you were used to. He was still him, but… different. Brash, confident, wild. Like he knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it. And right now, what he wanted was you.

"I missed you. What are you thinking about?" His voice was lower, rougher than you remembered. There was something in the way he carried himself—an edge that hadn’t been there before.

"You. You just seem… different," you say with a smile as you study him in curiosity.

His lips brush just below your ear and his hands begin to wander. "Yeah? Well, dying does something to a guy," he joked, pushing you up against the wall.