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 sothing—olet, toast, so sautéed mushrooms—and placed it in front of .
"Eat. You fainted hard. Health potion or not, you'll need real food." He sat down across from , 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 . I'm not dead, so either you had a change of heart, or you're saving for sothing 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 ca out nearly made fall out of mine.
"I want to date you."
The words hit 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 a heart attack just by looking at ." I paused, stabbing a piece of olet 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 t… 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 overwheld.
"Already made so," he said, sliding the mug toward 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 get this straight," I said, forcing myself to lean against the counter and throw on my usual smirk. "You broke into my place—healed , apparently—cooked breakfast, and then asked out. Not because you need sothing, not because I'm a target, but because you like ?"
Michael nodded once, like that was the most normal thing in the world.
I raised an eyebrow. "You sure the serum didn't fry sothing 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 rembered 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 calmly. "Then I leave."
"Just like that?"
He gave a small shrug. "I don't force people. I kill threats, not hearts."
That… surprised . And I hated that it did.
My instincts told this man was danger wrapped in charm, dipped in quiet death. And yet—he'd had the perfect opportunity to finish off, and he hadn't. More than that, he'd carried here, fed , 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 so 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 sha. "Figured you'd say that."
I groaned. "Ugh. You're worse than when you were scaring ."
Michael tilted his head. "That's a complint, right?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I plopped back down at the table, muttering, "God help ," under my breath.
God help 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 ca.
Instead, the air stayed quiet—warm, oddly peaceful. And across the table from sat the man who should've killed . Could've. Maybe should've.
But didn't.
He looked calm, sipping his coffee like this was a lazy Sunday morning, like we were so dostic 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 soone who's killed people."
Michael glanced at . "What should I act like?"
"Colder. Scarier. Less… normal."
He leaned back, resting an arm along the chair. "Do you want to be colder?"
The question sent a little chill through . 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 for a second.
*******
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