"Morning," you say, watching Mickey - who looks adorably fucking sleepy even if you'll never say it to his face - shuffle down the stairs and into the kitchen. You meet him next to the table and plant a quick kiss to his lips. "Feeling better?"
He mumbles something about it being just a cold, but leans heavily into you. You press another kiss to the top of his head, maybe, kind of, a little bit breathing in the scent of him.
"Coffee?" you ask, one last, quick kiss to his temple before pulling back. He nods and moves to sit opposite Carl and Liam at the table while you pour him a cup.
"I want some coffee," Carl says when you bring Mickey's cup over.
"Then get up and get it," you tell him. You hand Mickey his cup with a smile and another kiss to his hair. "I gotta get to work. You gonna be okay?"
"I'll be fine, Gallagher. It's a fuckin' cold."
You sit next to him and rest the back of your hand against his forehead. "Not warm."
"Because it's a cold," he says, picking up his coffee mug and chugging it down quickly. "I'm fine."
You hold his free hand in your own, bring it to your lips and kiss his knuckles. "You sure?" You press his hand to your face and place a kiss in his palm. "Because I can call in sick."
"Gallagher." His tone is all exasperation, but his eyes are soft. "I'm okay."
"Fine." You lean in and kiss his cheek before getting up and filling your travel mug. "Can I at least make you some breakfast before I go?"
"No," he says, and you can practically see his eye roll through the back of his head. He gets up and meets you in the kitchen, refills his coffee. "Go to work."
You pull him into a hug. "Fine. But I'm calling on my lunch break."
You smooth a hand down his back and kiss his shoulder. Pull back to look at him, concerned but sure he'd tell you if he needed you. You lean in and press another kiss to his forehead, your sweet gesture interrupted by Carl's snort of laughter from the table.
You and Mickey both turn to look at him.
"The fuck're you talkin' about?" Mickey asks.
"Ian's kissed you nine times in the minute-and-a-half you've been downstairs."
Mickey's snort matches Carls. "Sounds about right."
"What?" You look between the three of them. "No I fucking haven't."
"You did," Liam says. "We were counting."
"Why the fuck were you counting?" Mickey asks, leaning back against the sink.
"Yeah, why were you counting?"
Carl smirks. "Because it's the same fucking thing every morning."
"Literally every morning," Liam agrees.
"So today we decided to keep track."
"Losers," Mickey says into his coffee cup.
"Ian's the one who can't keep his lips to himself," Carl says.
You look between the three of them, arms over your chest. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Just lame," Carl continues.
You look at Mickey. "Do you think it's lame?"
"'Course not," he says. "I know you can't help yourself."
You scoff. "Fuck you, I can help myself."
"You're not irresistible, Mickey."
"No, but you're a kisser." He shrugs one shoulder and takes a sip of coffee, but you're pretty sure his smug smirk stays in place the entire time. "Always have been."
You look at the three of them again, scowling at their knowing looks, and reach for your bag.
"Whatever. I don't need to kiss you, Mickey."
"Fuck you, I don't." You turn to your brothers. "Pay attention tomorrow, assholes. I won't kiss him once."
"Sure you won't," Mickey agrees, clearly humouring you.
"How about you don't kiss him now?" Carl says. "No kiss goodbye."
"Whatever. It's nothing. Fuck you all, I'm going to work."
Bag on your back, you leave the kitchen, and ignore their chuckles. You pause at the door to get your boots on. Reach for the handle. Stop.
You storm back into the kitchen, finding Mickey exactly where you left him, leaning against the sink. One eyebrow shoots up at the sight of you because he fucking knows and fuck him for that.
You grasp his head in your hands and press a quick, bruising kiss to his lips, ignoring the laughter from the table and relishing in the sharp inhale through his nose. You let him go and step back, narrowing your eyes at all three of them.
"That was not a kiss goodbye. That was because you said I'd kissed him nine times and you can't just leave something at nine. It has to be an even number or a multiple of five. Everyone fucking knows that."
"Sure, Gallagher. You keep tellin' yourself that."
You leave without another word, flipping them all off over your shoulder.
