Liz Gillies Requests

Looking After (Liz&Michael)

~NOTES~
Kinda short but fluffy. Are these chapters getting a little repetitive now? I feel like they are. Let me know. I got a big ol' Everlasting Christmas-themed chapter heading your way soon... Anyway, enjoy :)

Liz's POV
I finally get home from work and collapse on the couch with the dogs.

Michael walks downstairs.

"Hey, how was work?" He asks, kissing me.

"Fine." I nod, closing my eyes.

"You okay?" Michael asks.

"I'm good." I say.

"You seem tired." Michael says.

"No I'm okay." I say.

"Do you want me to make you some food?" Michael asks, sitting next to me on the couch.

"No thank you." I say.

"Are you sure? I could whip up a few courses." Michael offers.

"I'm not really hungry, but thanks." I say.

"You're not eating much, babe." Michael says.

"Like I said, I'm not hungry." I repeat.

"Alright." Michael says. "This is pretty." He trails a hand across my lacy tank top.

"I'm taking it off soon." I say sternly.

"Oh really?" Michael smirks playfully.

"I'm not in the mood." I tell him.

"That's fine." Michael nods, pecking my lips with a smile.

"Can I just have some space?" I huff.

"I'm a bit worried about you, Liz." Michael says.

"You don't need to be worried." I say, faking a smile.

"All you've eaten the last six days once you get home is a packet of noodles, a can of soda and a bag of sour patch kids." Michael says.

"What's it to you?" I ask.

"You're my wife, and I care about you." Michael says.

"Good to know." I roll my eyes, standing up from the couch.

"And now you're being cranky. You've hardly spoken to me this week." Michael sighs.

"Michael, I am tired, okay. When I get home at midnight, I want to shower and sleep. I don't want to eat a three course meal and fool around in the kitchen. I want my bed." I explain.

"I understand that, I do. But you're not looking after yourself." Michael says, following me to the kitchen.

"I'm trying, okay." I say.

"Are you? Because it doesn't really look like it to me." Michael says.

"Are you seriously picking a fight with me? Over this?" I ask, getting mad.

"Over what?" Michael asks.

"Over my diet? Are you suggesting something?" I ask.

"No! I-" Michael tries.

"Save it!" I yell.

"Don't yell, please." Michael says.

"Maybe I wouldn't have to if my husband didn't pick a fight with me over every little thing, including what I eat." I groan.

"You always do this!" Michael exclaims.

"Do what?" I ask.

"When you're feeling insecure you push it onto me, as if it's my fault." Michael sighs.