Unwelcome | Michael Myers x Reader

Chapter 11

(A/N): I like the start of this chapter, and I like writing how spazzy Katie is, and I like Michael and I like-

I'll just say I think this chapter came out good :)

You stretch your arms above your head, writhing under the blankets on your bed as you shoved the sleep from your bones and muscles. You force yourself up, leaning on your elbows as you blinked away the sleep in your eyes. It was Saturday, thank god, so you could stay home without feeling bad about it. You looked over at the clock, reading that it was 11 am. After Michael had made another mask he'd left while it dried and hadn't returned before you'd gone to bed. You threw your covers aside and shifted so your legs were hanging over the side of your comfy mattress. You grabbed your phone form your nightstand and checked your new notifications. Elijah had responded to your text saying Michael wouldn't hurt you with an eyeroll emoji. You were tempted to invite him over to meet Michael and prove your point but you didn't want to without permission. You forced yourself to your feet with a groan, walking over to your curtains and throwing them open, burning your eyes out in an instant with a cat-like hiss.

"Good morning world," you said sarcastically, hating how bright it was. At least it was a beautiful day. You'd have to go for a walk or something. Your stomach rumbled, reminding you of your basic human needs, and you pondered what to make for breakfast as you made your way downstairs, pausing in the living room to check and make sure your yellow mask was still safe and on display. Maybe omelettes? You turn back to the kitchen, yawning silently and closing your eyes as you did. Waffles? You open your eyes, rubbing the sleep from them as you set foot in the kitchen- You go still in an instant, blood turning to ice. At your sink was a man, a huge man with short yet shaggy brown hair. He was wearing a grey t-shirt and black sweats, cleaning a bowl in your sink. What the fuck. You're frozen for a moment as your tired minds begin to buzz into overdrive, not sure what to do and not making sense of the situation. You spot a frying pan on the stovetop between you and the man, and you only think of one possibility; hit him over the head.

Slowly your hands move to tighten around the frying pan's handle, and then your arm is whipping the thing towards the man's head. He spins and you catch a flash of yellow before your pan hits home, connecting with a buff arm holding a sponge. Realization hits you; it's Michael. Obviously.

"Ohmygod-" you gasp out, setting the pan back on the stove and covering your mouth with your hands. Michael's arm was still in it's blocking position until the pan was let go of, and then it slowly lowered, bending and straightening as if to make sure it wasn't broken. "I'm so sorry!" you breathe out, your hands moving to cover your whole face momentarily before returning to their previous position over your mouth. Michael was wearing a yellow mask just like yours, and he tilted his head, sponge still in hand. He had been doing your dishes. He tilts his head, and sets the sponge in the sink, tilting it the other direction as if silently asking what you were doing. "I-I thought you were an intruder or something, where's your normal mask and your normal clothing and-" you silence when he places a hand on your head silencing you just like that. He then grabs the notepad off the counter and scribbles down, 'messy hunt. Fell into mud. Clothes in laundry.'. "That makes sense." you sigh, covering your face again. "Sorry, Michael." a light chuckle escapes you after your apology and draws a nod of acceptance.

"Is your arm okay?" you ask, reaching out to take his hand and examine where you'd hit him. It was growing purple already, and you knew it'd only get worse. "Shit, I'm sorry." you huff and tilt your head up to meet his gaze. His yellow mask framed his face, a perfect outline, a second skin, just like the one he had made for you. It didn't cast a shadow over his eyes like the one he usually wore, it allowed the light to reflect off of his beautiful irises. His right eye was a dark blue, almost black, while his left was much lighter. It reminded you of your grandmother's blind eyes, and you found yourself wondering if he was completely blind in that eye or only partially. The tiny bit of skin above and below the eye was scarred with a thin white line, a healed wound. That explained the pale eye. Michael's tilting head brought you back to reality and told you that you'd been staring. Your face flushed, and you averted your gaze. "Sorry." you apologized for the hundredth time, settling on examining his darkening bruise. He continued to stare at you, confused by your embarrassment.