Chapter Text
When Mike pushes the front door open, he's hit with familiarity. The soft lull of music from the living room, one song fading out to the next with a succession that lets him know it's a mixtape of his own creation. The pungent smell of shampoo, enough strength behind it to make his eyes sting. At first, he thinks Abby has spilled the entire bottle in the shower again, and he’s already starting to resign to a state of frustration that stems from having to budget money for yet another bottle of hair care.
Then, he hears the combined laughter of you and Abby floating from the kitchen. Everything melts away from his body to make room for the overwhelming happiness that instantly takes over.
It all feels so good that it's dizzying. It makes him feel a little sick, even when a smile spreads to his face and he enters the house, throwing his keys into the bowl and instantly bending down to untie his shoes.
Now made aware of his presence, your laughter stops first, tapering off into a little "oh". He stands (a little dizzy for real this time, he needs something to eat), and is met with your face, a pleased expression that seems to mimic his feeling painted onto it.
"Mike's home," you say, most likely to Abby, but your eyes never leave his. Plus, it's not like Abby can hear you over her own singing.
He approaches you, hands twitching at his sides with the eagerness they have to finally touch you. And just when he's a few steps away, about to pull you into a hug or maybe a kiss, he has to remind himself that you're not that close . His dreams aren't reality.
Instead of embracing you like he wanted to, he steps to the fridge and pulls out a coke.
"Hey," punctuated by the sound of the can popping open. "What're you two doing?" Mike gestures to his little sister who stands with her head in the kitchen sink, voice bouncing off the metal, two small hands pressed into the counter, her body elevated by her stance on her toes.
Your smile widens even more just before you turn to the sink. For a second, Mike's upset that he can't see your face, then his eyes flit down to your hips and ass and he can't help but stare as he brings his soda to his lips.
"Abby requested a haircut," comes your explanation, which rationalizes the pair of scissors he sees sitting on the counter beside you. They're sleek, and definitely not his, so Mike assumes you'd brought them from your home.
Something about having an item from your house in his makes his chest feel all fluttery. Mike gulps another swig of sugary soda down, pushes the thought from his mind and turns his gaze away as you turn the sink water off.
He stands in silence against the fridge while you direct Abby to the kitchen table, sitting her in a chair and sweetly correcting her posture before he can. The conversation between you two is soft and swift, it flows naturally, unforced, and Mike both envies and admires you.
He feels like he has to try twice as hard to have a conversation with his own sister that doesn’t feel manufactured. Like something he’d seen on TV and put to the test. You talk to Abby like you’re meant to be in her life, and Mike wishfully thinks that you are.
You move around Abby's smaller frame, snipping at the ends of her hair, lifting it up vertically and cutting it diagonally. When you get to the front of her face, holding a comb in one hand and the scissors in the other, he catches glimpses of the two of you making faces at the other, both shushing each other once a fit of giggles breaks out and Abby can’t sit still.
It feels incredibly domestic. And Mike doesn't want you to leave.
Which is why he's barely upset whenever Abby suggests you cut his hair too.
"You said your hair is too long now, right, mike?" Two heads face him and Mike feels his face get warmer.
"Uh ... I–uh–"
"Really? I can cut yours too, if you want." You say it so casually, and Mike supposes that it is casual, he's just the one harboring a little crush on you.
He takes a breath, takes a swig from his can, and shrugs.
"Yeah. Sure. If you don't mind."
Your lips turn up, your eyes twinkle a bit, and you nod. "I don't mind."
Refusing to cause further discomfort to his back from bending over the sink, Mike comes out of the bathroom an agonizingly long 20 minutes later, newly cleaned, a little more relaxed, and still ruffling his wet hair with a towel.
You and Abby are still at the kitchen table, Abby's hair now mostly dry and maybe an inch shorter (Mike truthfully can’t tell). She seems satisfied with your handiwork, head turning a little more exaggeratedly when Mike steps on the creaky floorboard, hair moving in the created wind.
"You ready?" Your words are spoken with a certain mischief that makes Mike consider that he should be worried.
His eyebrows furrow playfully and he takes a seat in the chair you have pulled out for him.
He ends up a little more fidgety than he should be, sat listening to Abby excitedly tell him about her day, his ears continuously perking up at every little mention of you even when you’re standing right behind him.
He laughs with you when you hint that his hair is curlier than Abby’s, and she gets incredibly defensive. He accidentally matches his breathing with yours as you cut around his hair. He can’t help but look up at you with lovesick eyes when you’re standing to either side of him, bent down just enough to further inspect his strands.
He listens to Abby's stories, humming when he should at moments that require them, even when he’s barely paying attention. It’s not like he can really pay attention when he can smell your perfume and your voice is so close and it’s so sweet and smooth and he wishes you would bend down and peck his temple and head between snips like couples would do.
When Abby tells him that you have plans to take her shopping after Thanksgiving, Mike has the urge to invite you to spend the (usually lonely) holiday with them. Instead, he swallows the invitation with fear as a chaser and tells you that you don’t have to do that.
“It’s fine, really. We’ll have a girls day.”
Feeling a little left out, Mike can’t help but ask, “Without me?”
Abby chimes in. “It’s a girls day, Mike.”
“Yeah. Besides, we’ll be using your money so it’ll be like you’re there in spirit.”
And that’s when Mike is reminded that he pays you. You’re Abby’s babysitter, the one who lives a block over and babysits an arrangement of kids. Even though he’s heard you admit to Abby that the Schmidt household is your favorite, somehow despite the missed payments and familial drama. Mike can’t help but selfishly wonder if you like them the best because you like him .
Eventually, you end up standing in front of him, hands on your hips and tongue poking out just a little. “Almost done,” you promise, but it feels more like a threat to Mike. Still, he nods, and continues fisting the fabric of his plaid pajama pants.
You nudge his feet apart with yours. “Spread your legs, please” you whisper.
Fuck .
Mike knows you’re whispering because of your attempt to not disturb Abby who has been asleep for the past couple of minutes, her head buried in the opening of her folded arms on the table. But his mind is instantly in the gutter.
He’s imagining you saying those same words in a different context, one where you’re on your knees and looking up at him expectedly.
It takes Mike a second to comply, a second where you smirk and narrow your eyes a little, and he’s embarrassed now. He clears his throat and does as told, eyes down at his lap as he absolutely refuses to look at you in this position.
It’s entirely too silent, but Mike mentally curses when you speak again.
“Look at me.” Your hands sandwich his head and you manually make Mike comply this time.
He feels like he’s burning at this point, entirely too hot in all the wrong places.
His temperature only gets worse when you attempt to take a step back, and almost trip, leaving Mike to place his hands on your hips and steady you.
The touch he’d wanted.
It's simple, platonic, really, but his heart soars in his chest. He feels hopeful. He craves you. He wants to touch you more and in other places. He wants you to want him to touch you.
You mumble a small thanks and continue cutting his hair, and there’s no reason for Mike to continue touching you, so his hands fall to his thighs once more.
By the time you leave that night, Mike is down another forty dollars, has neatly cut hair, and a thick ball of longing in his throat.