A Collection Of Michael Gray Imagines

That Way

Michael stood across the room in the Garrison. You'd been watching him as he interacted with another woman.

For some reason, you couldn't shake the feeling of jealousy and you couldn't figure out why — you'd both mutually agreed on being friends without having to confront the other. Yet, there he was, talking to this other woman over a glass of whiskey, glancing at you every now and then, sending you a killer smile and you would melt. You hated that you like him so much.

Your last encounter with him had been last night, it was dark and the two of you were alone. You'd been caught up in something and were upset, he found you. He always did.

"Michael," you whimpered.

Rushing to your side, he placed his hand on your back and rubbed circles in you back, comforting you as he continued, "Don't worry. Whatever was wrong, I'll make it right."

Turning, you buried your head in his chest, hoping for the comfort of his warmth when he wrapped his arms around you to bring you closer.

"Michael," you whispered into his suited chest, tightly gripping his shirt in your fingers, fisting your hands together and tried not to cry. You were patting his chest with one hand, acting as a way of slowly releasing your emotions without completely losing it in front of him.

He had instantly pulled away and tilted your chin with the tip of his index, "I'll fix whatever was wrong; you know that."

Instead of smiling, like you had told yourself to at his words, your face scrunched up and salty tears fell from the corners of your eyes.

He had silently wiped them away with his thumbs and kissed your hair softly — so softly that you weren't even sure if it had happened. He held your head there, hand resting on the back of your neck and breathing in the scent of your clean hair.

He was mumbling things into your hair, hoping that they act as words of kindness, the one that caught your attention, right as you were slowing down the tears from flowing so freely, was, "I care about you. One day — one day, I'll be able to show you."

You looked up, and faced him, your cheeks red and stained with dried out tears, your eyes puffy and probably red too. He catches your gaze and holds it, you completely vulnerable in this moment and him taking you in, no matter how raw and real you were right in that moment.

"Michael," you begin, "I care about you too," before whispering the next part to yourself, "more than you'll ever know."

He holds your gaze, his eyes are soft and he replies, "What kind of person am I if I can't even look after my best friend, eh?"

His fingers rest under your chin, holding it up so you don't look down.

It's dark on the unlit street and his face is so close to yours, you can't help but wonder what it would be like if you were more than friends. If he were to lean in and press his lips against yours... just once.

Your breathing hitched and you banished your thoughts as his fingers sent shivers down your spine as he rubbed circles close to your jaw.

"Friends don't look at friends that way," you say to yourself and pull your chin away, looking to the side so as to not face him, "thank you, I think I'll be good for the night."

"I'll walk you."

You held up a hand, not trusting your voice to break before bursting into tears. You silently walk away, your dignity still intact and make your way home for the night.

Now, you were sitting, staring at him and the girl he was with, her sidling up close to him, running her manicured nails up and down his arm. She radiated confidence and was well-kept, judging by the state of her nails and clean boots, barely even scuffed.