Felicia's POV
"Good… morning," I mumbled as I shuffled into the kitchen, trying not to trip over my own uncertainty.
Michael turned, calm as ever, and nodded slightly. "Good morning." His tone was casual, like we were just two roommates having a Sunday brunch. Not a god-tier assassin and the woman he could have snapped like a twig twelve hours ago.
I didn't reply. I just sat stiffly at the dining table, watching him like he was a tiger dressed as a chef.
He plated something—omelet, toast, some sautéed mushrooms—and placed it in front of me.
"Eat. You fainted hard. Health potion or not, you'll need real food." He sat down across from me, resting his arms on the table, his gaze steady.
"…Are you okay?" he asked.
I stared at the plate. My stomach growled before I could decide whether I was supposed to eat it or throw it at his face. "I don't know," I muttered honestly. "You tell me. I'm not dead, so either you had a change of heart, or you're saving me for something worse."
He blinked. "Worse?"
I leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "What do you want, Michael?"
His silence lasted half a beat too long. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the edge of his mug. Then he opened his mouth—
—and what came out nearly made me fall out of mine.
"I want to date you."
The words hit me like a bat to the head.
"…I'm sorry, what?" My voice cracked. Not the dramatic, seductive crack I was used to. The panicked cat caught in a thunderstorm kind.
"I said," Michael replied, completely unfazed, "I want to date you."
I forgot how to blink. Or breathe. My ears rang. "You—you're insane."
"Possibly," he admitted. "But I'm not lying."
"Michael," I said slowly, trying to wrap my head around it, "you're the kind of guy who walks into a SHIELD black site like it's a grocery store. You defeated Taskmaster. You nearly gave me a heart attack just by looking at me." I paused, stabbing a piece of omelet with my fork. "And now you're here. Making breakfast. In my kitchen. Because… what? You have a crush?"
He smiled faintly. "Well, my types are blonde and you are one hot blondie."
My mouth went dry. My heart skipped and tumbled in my chest.
This man is deadlier than anyone I've ever met… and he's serious.
I looked at him again, really looked. There was no malice in his eyes, no manipulative undertone. Just a strange, eerie honesty.
"…I need coffee," I muttered, mostly to myself as I stood up, both stunned and overwhelmed.
"Already made some," he said, sliding the mug toward me without breaking eye contact.
"Of course you did."
I took the coffee like it was a shield. My hands wrapped around the mug, and I sipped slowly—stalling. Thinking. Failing to make sense of any of this.
This was insane.This was so insane.
"So let me get this straight," I said, forcing myself to lean against the counter and throw on my usual smirk. "You broke into my place—healed me, apparently—cooked breakfast, and then asked me out. Not because you need something, not because I'm a target, but because you like me?"
Michael nodded once, like that was the most normal thing in the world.
I raised an eyebrow. "You sure the serum didn't fry something up there?" I tapped my temple.
"Nope," he replied. "Everything's functioning. Including taste. That outfit you wore when you stole from Stark Tower last year? Top-tier."
My face flushed before I could stop it. He remembered that? Great. Now I had to pretend my ego wasn't flattered.
"Okay. Fine." I set the coffee down and folded my arms. "Let's say I believe you. Hypothetically. What happens if I say no?"
Michael looked at me calmly. "Then I leave."
"Just like that?"
He gave a small shrug. "I don't force people. I kill threats, not hearts."
That… surprised me. And I hated that it did.
My instincts told me this man was danger wrapped in charm, dipped in quiet death. And yet—he'd had the perfect opportunity to finish me off, and he hadn't. More than that, he'd carried me here, fed me, and… opened up.
I rubbed the back of my neck, unsure how to process that.
"…I'm not saying yes," I said cautiously.
Michael gave a faint smile. "I didn't expect you to."
"And I'm not saying no, either."
"Also expected."
A long pause followed. The kitchen felt too small, too warm. I hated how calm he looked. Like this was all part of some plan and I'd already walked into it.
"Alright then, Michael White," I said, grabbing the toast and pointing it at him like a weapon. "Let's play it your way. But one wrong move, and I swear—"
"You'll steal my heart?" he said flatly.
I blinked, stunned.
He sipped his coffee with zero shame. "Figured you'd say that."
I groaned. "Ugh. You're worse than when you were scaring me."
Michael tilted his head. "That's a compliment, right?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I plopped back down at the table, muttering, "God help me," under my breath.
God help me indeed.
I stared at my half-eaten toast like it held the answers to life. Like if I stared hard enough, the universe would whisper, "Run, idiot. He's hot, but he's lethal."
But the whisper never came.
Instead, the air stayed quiet—warm, oddly peaceful. And across the table from me sat the man who should've killed me. Could've. Maybe should've.
But didn't.
He looked calm, sipping his coffee like this was a lazy Sunday morning, like we were some domestic couple sharing breakfast, instead of a master thief and a reaper in human form.
"I don't get you," I finally muttered, breaking the silence. "You don't act like someone who's killed people."
Michael glanced at me. "What should I act like?"
"Colder. Scarier. Less… normal."
He leaned back, resting an arm along the chair. "Do you want me to be colder?"
The question sent a little chill through me. Not because it was threatening—but because I wasn't sure of my answer.
"I don't want anything from you," I lied smoothly.
"Right," he said, not believing me for a second.
*******
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