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“By the way, do you wanna put that pretty face of yours to good use next time you're down here?”
Mike raises an eyebrow even though Sam can't see it through the phone. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you turn me down?”
“It's not for me,” she says. Mike can hear her smiling. “We're brainstorming fundraiser ideas at the shelter, and I was thinking we could make one of those ‘hot shirtless guy poses with cute animals’ charity calendars. People will eat that shit up. It'll be good publicity for the shelter, too.”
“And I was your first choice to be your hot shirtless guy? How flattering.”
“I know how you like to show off. Besides, you love that shelter as much as I do.”
“I'll think about it,” Mike says, but he already knows he's going to do it. So does Sam.
“Thanks, Mike. See you in a couple of weeks.”
Sam is fucking lucky Mike isn't camera shy. Or any other kind of shy. If he was, he'd be more pissed off about having a camera pointed at him when he's wearing nothing but boxer briefs.
One of the other volunteers is acting as photographer, but Sam is there to help wrangle the dogs and be his “moral support.” This mostly consists of her wolf whistling and yelling “Work it, Munroe!” while he sweats under the lights of their makeshift studio. He flips her off.
“That's not very charitable of you,” the photographer says, smirking.
“You two are conspiring against me!” Mike says, indignant. “You're lucky I don't mind taking my clothes off for beautiful women.”
“There's that charm,” Sam says. “See, that's why you're perfect for this shoot. Now stop complaining and play with the dogs.”
“So demanding,” Mike says, but he does as he's told.
The calendar is a hit. Sam and some of the other volunteers sell them at the shelter’s booth at a local street fair to resounding success. The rest of the stock go on sale on the shelter's website, helpfully linked on the front page. Sam sends Mike one of the calendars along with a copy of the revenue report.
“Those dogs are gonna be eating better than I do,” Mike jokes over the phone.
“That's the idea,” Sam says. “Thanks again for doing this, Mike.”
“Sure thing. I mean, I still wish you'd told me about the underwear thing beforehand, but the pictures turned out great, so it's fine.”
“Let it never be said that you're not a man who knows what's important to him.”
“I know what my priorities are. Speaking of which, my ass looks great in August, so be sure to thank Lauren for me.”
Sam laughs, and it's no less infectious over the phone than it would have been in person. “I'll be sure to pass on the message. Want me to add your phone number while I'm at it?”
“What's this? You wanna play wingwoman for me? Well, I am flattered, but Lauren didn't want to call me. I'm afraid the best loving I've gotten out of the shelter is dear old Tycho.”
“Ooh, I've gotta congratulate her on having better taste than I gave her credit for. Or apologize for doubting her. Maybe both.”
“Sam, you are a cruel woman. I'd be mad at you if we weren't such good friends.”
The first thing Mike says when he walks through the door is “Yo. Merry Christmas.” Sam catches the wrapped gift he throws at her. It's thin, flat, and light.
“Christmas was last week,” she says. “You're only here for New Years.”
“Is that your way of saying you didn't get me anything?” Mike pouts at her.
“Well, who's to say you even deserve a gift? Were you a good boy this year, Michael Munroe?”
“I was very good all year,” he says, flopping down onto the couch. “I did all my homework, I ate all my vegetables, I went to all of my sessions, and I brushed my teeth every night. I am the picture of a young man who should get a present for Christmas.”
“Alright, you convinced me,” Sam says. She bends down to pull something out from under the couch, thumping Mike’s head with it. He winces--whatever it is, it's not soft--but starts tearing the wrapping paper apart immediately.
It's a collection of presidential speeches. Mike runs his fingers along the spine of the book in something like reverence. “So you don't forget who you want to be,” Sam says.
“Shit, Sam. You went and got me something genuinely thoughtful. Now I feel like an asshole.”
“Don't go blaming me. You're plenty good enough at being one of those without my help,” Sam says as she unwraps her gift. She smiles and holds up the calendar. “Aw! You got me a year's worth of dogs.”
“I made sure it had all of your favorite breeds,” Mike says sheepishly.
“That you did.” She pauses. “Oh, don't go sulking about gift giving on fake Christmas. You'll spoil the holiday.”
“I'm not sulking.”
“Sure, you're just pouting.”
“I'm not!”
“You are! So quit it.” Sam rummages around in a drawer until she produces a push pin, which she uses to set the calendar up on the living room wall beside the TV. “There. Look. Golden retrievers. You can't look at a golden retriever and be sad. It's a rule of the universe.”
“It's not January yet, you know,” Mike says, a smile creeping onto his face.
“It's always time for dogs,” Sam says seriously. “Now scoot over. It's movie time.”
The calendar stays there for many months. Sam has a planner for school, but she takes to marking the dates Mike will be visiting on the dog calendar instead. She circles the dates in green, turns the page at the end of every month, but otherwise doesn't really touch it. Not until she gets an idea for a fun prank, at least.
The others had never thought she had much of a sense of humor. Sam never bothered with the practical jokes Josh and Chris liked to pull, and one would think that the prank they all pulled on Hannah would have turned her off from them completely.
But it's really easy to make fun of Mike.
It takes him the whole day to notice, which is funny because they spend most of their time in the living room, and the calendar is right there. She almost points it out, just so she can finally get a reaction out of him, but that feels too much like cheating, so she waits. He spots it eventually.
“Hey, Sam?” he asks. Sam is grabbing a drink from the kitchen, which is ideal because it gives her time to perfect her poker face.
“Yeah?”
“What's that?”
“What's what?” she asks. Sam walks back into the living room, where she finds Mike pointing at the wall, looking back and forth between her and the thing he's seen.
“That. On the wall. Isn't that...”
“It's a calendar. You've seen them before.”
“Yeah, but that's my calendar!” Mike splutters. The month's photo does indeed show Mike, clad only in his underwear, poised to throw a ball while two dogs stand beside him, preparing eagerly for the chase. “How long has this been up?”
“A while,” Sam says. It's not a lie if it's vague.
Mike looks away from her, clearly torn between flattery and embarrassment, his cheeks going pink from both. Sam smiles widely. It's a pretty cute response. She swoops in to give him a kiss on the cheek, which instantly makes Mike's face go from pink straight to red. He almost falls off the couch in surprise. He puts a hand to his cheek, looking up at her.
“Wh-what was that?”
“Just a little smooch. Come on, you've had worse. Or better, depending on your perspective,” Sam says.
“You can't just kiss me!”Mike says, indignantly.
“You're always talking about how you've got so much love to give. Who says you're the only one?”
Mike groans and puts his face in his hands. “You really enjoy giving me a hard time, don't you?”
“Yes, I absolutely do.”
That night, Mike holds onto Sam a little more tightly than usual when they go to bed. “You okay there, Mike?” Sam asks. “I kinda still need to be able to breathe.”
“Revenge for the kiss,” he grumbles into the back of her head. “You are hereby sentenced to death by spooning.”
“The horror,” she says, grinning.
“Cruel and unusual,” Mike agrees, “but not undeserved.”