| no catch , mjj | ✓

☆ - 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳.

"How long do you think we've been in here?"

Michael internally sighs in relief at the sound of Leigh-Anne's voice. Up until just now, she'd gone at least an hour without speaking to him.

He knows that interfering with her night has certainly been a dickhead move, but he couldn't help it. And in all honesty, he sure as hell doesn't regret it. If he hadn't, she'd still be in this room, but not with him—she'd be in here doing God knows what with that tool, a man whose name she didn't even remember.

"I dunno. An hour at most, maybe," he replies.

The club is still in full swing outside the door, and no one has come over. Michael honestly doesn't expect anyone to come open the door until closing, which, by his guess, is still a couple of hours away.

If he's being honest, though, he isn't quite ready for that door to open. Because once it does, Leigh-Anne will most likely book it and be gone.

And after the shit he's pulled tonight, she may end up leaving for good.

For now, Lei shifts and tugs at her dress. She looks uncomfortable as she sits on the hard floor nearby.

As for Michael, the instinct to take care of her is almost overwhelming. It always has been, but something about it specifically makes it feel different now. His feelings overall have crossed a line tonight, and he still doesn't know which side she wants him on.

Leigh-Anne groans as she has trouble getting comfortable on the floor. So, Michael reaches over his head, grips the back of his black long sleeve, and slides it off over his head. It's hot as hell in the storage room anyways.

She raises an eyebrow at him, getting a little concerned. "What the fuck are you doing?"

He laughs and folds his shirt up neatly, making a cushion out of it. "Chill out. Here." He sets the folded shirt down next to him on the ground. "You'll have to come sit by me if you want it."

That probably isn't the best idea he's ever had. Not when it's taking everything in him not to pin her up against the wall and finish what they started.

Leigh-Anne bites her lip, and Michael doesn't miss the way her eyes travel over his slim, toned abdomen. Her gaze lingers over the tattoo on his chest before it lands on his shirt he's provided as her seat.

He isn't the only one who can't stop thinking about the kiss, then. Could she possibly want him the way he wants her? She sure as hell did about an hour ago, but that was also before she'd realized he wasn't the guy she'd met at the bar and hung out with on the dance floor.

Sighing, Leigh-Anne eventually gives in, slowly crawling over to sit on the makeshift cushion.

Michael nudges her arm with his once she sits down. "I've been told my lap is also a very comfortable option, if you ever wanna give that a try."