mike cannot seem to keep his legs closed. literally. sitting next to him was a total hassle. his legs covering every perimeter of leg space he could reach — leaving your knees buckled together and tucked in whatever corner you're forced into.
you've mentioned his bad habit before, in which he mumbles an indolent "sorry" and then the next day, continues to do the same thing he's half heartedly apologized for. at this point, you're not sure he was doing it to press your buttons or his permanent restlessness has caught up with his memory.
then playful slaps on the knee became another idea. a quick sting to his skin kept his reactions stunned, buckling his knees together from your sharp touches. each slap garnered a short cry and a sudden flinch like some invisible string tied his legs together.
it worked, but only for a few days.
now mike catches your wrist halfway from making contact on his knees, gently tugging you down in the corner of the linen couch with a delighted chuckle. either that or he tosses you a knowing glance when you come by the couch, a raised brow and his hands protecting the caps of his knees — glancing his soft hazel eyes towards the tiny empty space beside him.
what a total ass.
all your solutions to stop his leg spreading habit seemed to do nothing for mike. instead, it made him even more repulsive — the spatial width between his legs could nearly reach the arms of the couch, leaving your poor body folded to regain any left over space. then his arms spread along the plush pillows — his rough hand would ever so often teasingly tug at your ears or play with the loose strands of your hair, pulling the ends while playfully twirling it in his finger.
in the corner of your eye, you swore there was a smug smile etched onto his face.
yeah, he's totally doing this on purpose.
you thought a bit harder after that day. re-enacting different scenarios in your head without it resulting in some unneeded argument — nearly burning abby's lunch in the process. but like a flash of light, it suddenly hit you. if mike was going to rob you of personal space, why can't you do so to him?
"um ... are you okay?" abby glances up at your blank eyes in concern, the chicken that was supposed to be golden brown violently sizzled from the bubbling oil, grimly layered under a blanket of black charcoal.
"o – oh, yes i'm fine abs." you assured the smaller schmidt, transferring the hot pan away from the scorching stove — your inner victory delayed by your own clumsiness.
to salvage her burnt meal, you both shared a box of fresh delivered pizza for lunch.
but now it was that time.
it's nighttime, mike was comfortably splayed on the couch, mindlessly flipping through channels. as it always was, his legs covered every crevice of the couch — body propped completely in between the plush cushions. the gray baggy sweatpants he changed into clung to his frame well — heavily ruffled on the parts you would love to get an eyeful of. his shirt was slightly damp from a warm shower, the gently curl patterns in his brown hair glistened under the colorful glow of the television.
mike catches your lingering gaze, a pleased smile on his face.
"you're not going to sit down?" he slurred a quip, patting down on the other end of the couch — seized by his thick thighs.
he refrains from teasing you for your blatant staring, but instead, for your multiple failed attempts to get him to stop his obnoxious leg spreading.
"oh yeah i will." you mocked his sluggish tone, going to get yourself a cold drink before you make your way over to the couch.
