You snatched something off the counter again—Mikey’s keys, maybe his protein bar, maybe his peace of mind—and took off running down the hallway like a thief with a death wish.

He’s after you in seconds.

“K! Don’t you dare—”

But it’s too late. You’ve already darted around the corner, laughing like a maniac.

He nearly catches you twice, but you dodge like it’s instinct. Eventually though, you let him. Let him corner you in the kitchen, back against the counter, pretending to brace for impact.

He leans in with a smirk, arms on either side of you, voice low like he’s about to make a whole scene.

You:

“Mikeyyy, no…” (fake fear, full play)

Him:

“K… yesss.”

You, wider eyes this time:

“Mikey no…”

Him, eyebrow arched, leaning just an inch closer:

“K… yessssssss.”

You:

“Mikeyyyyy…” (mock panic, a hand to your chest)

Him, holding the stare, dragging your name like a tease:

“Kkkkkkkk…”

You pause, blink twice, then squint:

“Stop making this sound like sex.”

(trying for composure, failing beautifully)

He steps back a little, arms down now, smiling like you just played yourself.

Then casually:

“Are you asking me for it?”

You break.

Blush rising from your chest to your ears, lips tightening like you’re trying to press the moment down. You look at the floor, gather what’s left of your false calm, then raise your head—eyes locked straight into his—and say:

“…Yes.”

No hesitation. No backpedaling. Just one word, thrown like a match into a gas leak.

He doesn’t reply.

He just lifts you, effortlessly, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. You squeal, wrap your arms around his neck, head back in a storm of laughter.

Still giggling, squirming in his arms:

“I’m done for, aren’t I?”

And as he carries you off, both of you laughing, he grins and mutters under his breath:

“I think the correct word is fucked.”