The Night Shift (Mike Schmidt x Reader)

14. Room

(Back to your POV)

I was in someone else's apartment. Either I'd been kidnapped or gotten flat-out drunk and -- no, I was on the couch, not in someone else's bed. Thank god. Well, that still left being kidnapped. Shit. 

I had woken up to someone's scream, which I made sure to echo immediately. Screaming, oh joy. Mike ran into the room, and I let out a sigh of relief. That's right; I had fallen asleep in the pizzeria. I giggled at my own stupidity as he came over. 

"Hey," Mike said. "You fell asleep back there. I just decided to carry you over here. By the way, welcome to my apartment." It was a little bigger than my own; the bedroom was separate. "You need anything? I can take you home if you want." Mike offered. I stretched in reply. "Sorry to cause you all the trouble. Oh, shit! Did you say you carried me here? You could've just woken me up!" Mike nodded. 

"Yeah, I could've. You just looked so peaceful, and I didn't want to ruin that. I think that's the first time you've slept in a while." Mike answered. I shrugged. He was right.

"I could use something to eat. I haven't eaten since we shared that bag of Cheetos you brought over." I said. Mike chuckled and got up. "Neither have I," Mike replied. 

We ended up just talking about the shows we had watched earlier together. Turns out that he had loved Steven Universe just as much as I enjoyed Gravity Falls. I hadn't really imagined him as a cartoon person; if anything, I expected him to be more of a horror fan. Then again, he did pretty much work in the genre. Come to think of it, our workplace could easily be a best selling horror game. Nah, that's a stupid idea. It'd never work out. 

Mike finally finished cooking after a long conversation about pockets. I don't know why, but it seems like almost every talk I have deviates into me complaining about pockets. I swear, it is completely unfair that women's pants have these teeny-tiny pockets (if there are any at all) that you can't fit your full hand in whereas guys get huge pockets that go down to the middle of their thighs. It was a go-to conversation starter for me. It's a little strange, but it helps break the silence. 

Anyway, Mike had made just a few pieces of toast. I tentatively took a bite. I had never really been a fan of the breakfast food. It was good toast. Great toast. The best damn toast I'd ever had!

Of course, Vincent had to stop by. He didn't say anything; he just jumped in through the window, stole the toast, and jumped back out. Mike and I just shrugged at each other. Vincent's drop-ins had simply become the norm by now. 

"He's as addicted to toast as I am to coffee," Mike explained. "he's stopped by before. I make extra toast now."

He pulled out an extra plate covered in the toaster's marvelous creation from under the sink. How had I not seen him hide it earlier, why was it still so warm, and why the hell did he put it under the sink? 

Wouldn't be surprised if he was hiding something else, considering how well the food was. I shrugged and continued eating the confection. I like toast. Mike's toast, anyway.