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The door creaked quietly as Ian stepped inside, toeing off his boots and shutting it behind him. The apartment was dim except for the soft glow of the TV and a low hum of voices from whatever Mickey had put on in the background.
Ian was already smiling before he even saw him.
Mickey was curled on the couch, blanket half-kicked off, one arm draped over his stomach and the other loosely hanging off the side, remote clutched in his hand like he’d been about to switch the channel but got too comfortable to finish the job.
His cheeks were flushed pink—either from sleep or the heat, Ian couldn’t tell. His hair was sticking up in three directions, and the glasses he sometimes wore when scrolling or watching something were crooked on his nose, barely hanging on.
His lips were parted just slightly.
And Ian froze.
Just stood there for a second, letting himself look. Letting himself ache a little from how beautiful his husband was.
The worn black hoodie swallowed Mickey up, sleeves bunched near his hands, collar stretched wide enough that the soft slope of his collarbone peeked out. And the sweatpants… yeah, Ian would die for those sweatpants.
He stepped closer, slow, like he didn’t want to wake him too fast.
But Mickey’s eyes blinked open anyway, slow and lazy. “You’re back,” he mumbled, voice all scratchy and warm and sleep-heavy.
“Yeah.” Ian crouched beside the couch, brushing his thumb gently over Mickey’s cheekbone. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” Mickey shifted a little, the remote thudding to the carpet. “Was just restin’ my eyes.”
Ian chuckled softly. “You always say that when you’re dead asleep.”
Mickey shrugged one shoulder, clearly not planning to argue. His eyes fluttered shut again, lashes resting soft against flushed skin.
Ian couldn’t help it.
He slid his arms around Mickey and gently pulled him up, easing himself into the corner of the couch and settling Mickey across his chest. Mickey melted against him without protest, one leg draped over Ian’s, his face burying into Ian’s neck.
“Comfy now?” Ian whispered, grinning.
Mickey hummed, rubbing his nose lazily against Ian’s jaw. “Missed you.”
Ian kissed his hair, fingers carding through the messy strands. “Missed you too. You have no idea how fucking pretty you are right now.”
Mickey snorted, barely lifting his head. “I look like shit.”
“You look like heaven,” Ian murmured, thumb grazing Mickey’s jaw before he tilted his chin up and kissed him.
It started soft, slow. The kind of kiss that said “I love you” without words. But then Mickey shifted again, climbing more fully onto Ian’s lap, knees on either side, one hand sliding into Ian’s curls.
And then—god, yeah—Mickey kissed back.
He was good at this. Always had been. The way he kissed with his whole body, mouth warm and slow, tongue teasing and purposeful. Ian groaned against him, hands gripping his hips, tugging him impossibly closer.
Mickey tasted faintly of whisky and something sweet from earlier, probably one of those candy bars he swore he didn’t eat anymore.
He was addicted.
Ian tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and Mickey followed easily—soft sighs and gentle tugs, his other hand now pressed to Ian’s chest, steadying himself.
“Fuck,” Ian mumbled between kisses. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Not tryna,” Mickey breathed, lips brushing over Ian’s again, “just kissin’ my husband.”
Ian smiled, dizzy with it. With him.
They stayed like that—kissing, touching, tangled up on the couch, the forgotten TV flickering in the background—until the room felt like it only existed for them.
And when Mickey finally pulled back a little, his cheeks even more pink, lips swollen, hair an even bigger mess—Ian just stared.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Mickey muttered, biting back a grin.
“Can’t help it,” Ian whispered, brushing their noses together. “I’m in love with you.”
Mickey rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Sap.”
“Yours.”
“Damn right.”
And then Mickey kissed him again. Just because he could.