Mickey borrows your shirt.
It’s green, it’s too big, and it doesn’t quite suit Mickey’s skin tone, but at least it’s not dirty. You can’t stop grinning at him, to be honest, and he keeps shooting you these tiny little looks, the edge of his mouth quirked like he’s just so damn pleased you’re there.
Sammi’s sitting on the couch as you leave, and she tries to say something to you, but you think Mickey flips her the bird before you’re leaning on each other and stumbling out the door.
Mickey in your shirt is really fucking damn hot. It keeps doing things to your dick. You try to ignore it.
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