Morning Light
[Mike Schmidt x Female!Reader]
Synopsis: Mike always finds the best ways to distract you from your job, and you always find ways to help him get through his. Even if it’s only a few donuts and some coffee at a time.
WC: 2094
Category: Fluff, Slight Comfort
Basic plot I know 😔 but with a month before his return, I felt this was necessary.
『••✎••』
The first weak rays of dawn filtered through the threadbare curtains of Mike Schmidt's home, painting the room in hues of faded gold and gray. It was the kind of November morning where the air hung heavy with the chill of impending winter, the radiator clanking sporadically like an old man's reluctant cough. Mike had stumbled through the door around half past six, his boots still caked with the phantom dust of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, collapsing onto the sagging couch without bothering to kick them off. Sleep had claimed him in fits—haunted by the echo of his brother's laughter twisting into screams in the overgrown lot of his nightmares.
He stirred now, sometime after eight, his flannel shirt twisted around his torso, exposing a sliver of pale skin marked by faint bruises from last night's close call—a nightmare so vivid he was determined to unravel its true meaning before it swallowed him whole. The scent of stale coffee from the night before lingered, mingling with the faint, acrid tang of sweat and fear. Abby was already off to school—you'd handled that much, bundling her into your beat-up Civic with her backpack slung over one shoulder, her crayon-scribbled drawing of a "brave big brother" clutched in her small fist. "Tell Mike the bear said hi," she'd giggled as you waved goodbye at the chain-link gates, oblivious to the shadows that clung to her guardian like smoke.
You'd known Mike's schedule better than your own these past months, pieced together from the weary slump of his shoulders during those endless afternoons in Steve Raglan's cramped office. As the guidance counselor's assistant, you'd filed the endless stream of résumés, brewed the pot of tar-black coffee that Raglan insisted on ("Keeps the regrets at bay," he'd quip with that oily smile you chalked up to salesmanship), and watched Mike Schmidt trudge in like a man carrying the weight of a decade he hadn't lived yet.
Job after job—fast food flips, warehouse hauls, even that stint at the mall—crumbled under the strain of his "personal matters," as he'd mutter through gritted teeth. Raglan would lean back in his creaky chair, steepling his fingers, doling out advice laced with that peculiar gleam in his eye:
"Persistence, Mike. It's all about persistence."
You'd linger by the door, offering a sympathetic nod, a fresh photocopy of listings from the classifieds. One day, it had turned into coffee runs together—yours dark-roasted, his with enough cream to drown the bitterness—and from there, tentative conversations about anything but the failures piling up like unread mail.
The spare key turned smoothly in the lock, a soft click that blended with the morning's quiet. You pushed the door open with your hip, balancing the Dunkin' carrier in one hand—two large coffees steaming through the lids, caramel for you and vanilla-swirled for him, alongside a paper bag crinkling with glazed donuts dusted in sugar like fresh snow. The bell on your keychain—a cheap plastic pizza slice from a long-forgotten fair—jingled faintly as you nudged the door shut behind you. The house smelled of him: worn denim and faint aftershave, undercut now by the exhaustion that seeped from his pores.
Mike's eyes fluttered open at the sound, hazy with the dregs of sleep, his hair tousled into dark waves that fell across his forehead. He bolted upright too quickly, wincing as his neck protested, one hand instinctively groping for the flashlight that wasn't there.
"Shit—Abby?" His voice was a gravelly rasp, thick with disorientation, hazel eyes scanning the room like it was the security office all over again.
"She's good. Dropped her off twenty minutes ago—third time this week you've slept through the alarm." You set the carrier on the cluttered coffee table, amid crumpled job applications and a half-empty ashtray he swore he'd quit. The donuts spilled out slightly, their yeasty warmth cutting through the chill. You shrugged off your coat—a wool thing with frayed cuffs, thrifted from the Salvation Army—and hung it on the hook by the door, revealing the simple blouse and skirt that passed for professional in Raglan's underfunded office. "Figured you'd need fuel before you crash properly. Raglan's got me buried in filing today, but I detoured. Don't make that face; it's not charity."
He rubbed a hand over his face, stubble rasping against his palm, the lines around his eyes deepening like cracks in dry earth. Up close, in the unforgiving morning light, he looked every bit the haunted twenty-something he was—cheekbones sharp from skipped meals, shadows etched beneath his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. But there was a softness there too, in the way his gaze softened when it landed on you.
"You didn't have to," he said, but the words lacked bite, his fingers already reaching for the coffee cup with your neat handwriting scrawled on the side:
Survive the day, Schmidt.
He took a sip, the vanilla cutting through the fog, and exhaled like a man surfacing for air. "Last night was... rough. Couldn't focus on anything."
You perched on the edge of the armchair opposite, not too close, not too far—navigating the careful geography you'd both mapped out over weeks of shared silence and small talk.
"Want to talk about it?" you asked, knowing he'd likely say no, but offering anyway.
He shook his head, staring into the coffee cup like it held secrets. "Just the usual. The doors, the voices, the feeling that something's breathing down my neck."
You nodded, tearing open the donut bag and offering him a glazed ring that flaked sugar onto his lap. "Here. Sugar rush before the crash. And don't think I didn't notice you dodging Raglan's calls yesterday. He asked about you again—said you've got 'potential' if you just stick with something."
Mike snorted, a low, bitter sound that bordered on a laugh, taking the donut and biting into it with the ferocity of someone who hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. Crumbs dusted his shirt, and he brushed them away absently, his free hand drifting to rest on your knee—a touch light as a question, thumb circling the hem of your skirt in slow, absent arcs.
"Potential. Yeah, that's what he calls it. Guy's got a way of making failure sound like a stepping stone." His eyes met yours then, raw and unguarded, the hazel flecked with gold in the slanting light. There was something unspoken there, a gratitude laced with guilt, for the way you'd carved out space in his unraveling life without asking for blueprints. "You, though... you keep showing up. Dropping Abby, hauling... you know, me out of bed with this crap." He lifted the coffee cup in a mock toast, but his voice dipped lower, rougher. "Why? Raglan's got you running ragged enough without playing chauffeur for strays."
You set your own coffee down, the steam curling like secrets between you, and leaned forward to face him more fully. Your hand found his jaw, fingers tracing the stubble that shadowed his skin, the faint pulse beating steady under your touch. He leaned into it instinctively, eyes half-lidded, the exhaustion giving way to something warmer, hungrier.
"Because you're not a stray, Mike. You're the guy who lets me ramble on about my dead-end grad school dreams, who listens contentedly when I vent about Raglan's endless 'motivational' posters—like that one with the eagle that's just… creepy." Your thumb brushed his lower lip, smudged with a trace of glaze, and his breath hitched, warm against your skin. "And because after all those job fairs, all those 'next times,' I see you fighting. For her. For you. That's worth a detour through Dunkin' at rush hour."
The air thickened, charged like the static before a storm, the radiator's clank fading into irrelevance. Mike's hand slid up your arm, calluses rough from gripping that cursed flashlight, cupping the back of your neck with a gentleness that slowed the tremor in his fingers. He pulled you closer, closing the distance until your knees brushed his, his coffee cup set aside with a soft clunk.
"You know," he murmured, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "you never told me what you're doing in a dead-end office job, with a brain like that." His nose traced the line of your jaw, breath warm and smelling faintly of donuts and vanilla. "Grad school dreams don't pay the rent, but..." He paused, his lips hovering just shy of yours, testing the air like a moth drawn to flame. "Maybe they buy you coffee for a guy who can't even keep his alarm clock straight."
"Maybe," you breathed, tilting your head to grant him better access, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, dark and soft despite the lack of care. "Or maybe I'm just a sucker for lost causes with pretty eyes and a knack for fixing leaky faucets."
The memory surfaced unbidden—the late-night call, the panic in your voice over a drip-drip-drip that sounded like a ticking time bomb of landlord fury, and him showing up at your door in a ratty T-shirt, toolbox in hand, solving it with a grumbled 'This is why you're not supposed to use Drano for everything.'
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating through you, a sound so genuine it felt foreign against the backdrop of his usual guardedness. "Pretty eyes, huh? That's a new one." His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, the worn flannel of his shirt scratchy against the smooth cotton of yours. There was no space left for unspoken questions, for careful geography. The room narrowed to the space between you, the dust motes dancing in the slanted light, the distant wail of a siren painting the morning with urban melancholy.
You could've really had a soft moment together—a real, tender reprieve from the relentless grind of your lives. But the world, as it so often did, had other plans. The sharp, insistent trill of your pager cut through the haze, a digital shriek from the depths of your handbag. You already knew, before you even looked, what the message would say: the office, the filing, Raglan.
It was always the office.
Mike felt you stiffen, the warmth in his gaze dimming like a dying ember as he pulled back just enough to search your face. "Reality calling," he said, the words laced with a familiar resignation that made your chest ache.
You scrambled for your purse, fingers fumbling with the clasp. The tiny screen glowed with Raglan's office number, a glaring summons. "Crap," you muttered, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "He's early today. That's never a good sign."
You didn't need to elaborate; Mike knew all about your boss's moods, the way a sunny disposition could curdle into a bureaucratic nightmare over a misplaced file.
He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where a stray sugar crystal lingered.
"Go," he said, but his eyes held yours. "Don't let him work you too hard. And tell him—" He paused, a flicker of mischief in his tired eyes. "Tell him my 'potential' is currently manifesting as a severe case of caffeine deficiency."
A real smile broke across your face, quick and bright.
"I'll be sure to frame that in the most professional way possible." You leaned in, pressing a quick, hard kiss to his lips—a promise, an apology, a taste of coffee and sweet glaze. "I'll try to get out early. Maybe we can... I don't know. Not eat leftover pizza on the couch?"
"Sounds ambitious," he deadpanned, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. "I'll hold you to it."
You grabbed your coat and keys, the pizza-slice bell on the keychain jingling a jaunty, out-of-place tune. "Keep the donuts," you called over your shoulder as you headed for the door. "You'll need them."
The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Mike alone in the sudden silence. He sank back into the couch, the spot you'd vacated still warm. He picked up the donut you'd left, took a bite, and stared at the morning dew-streaked window, the distant skyline a jagged silhouette against the gray sky. The house felt emptier now, the ghosts of his nightmares stirring at the edges of his periphery, but for the first time in a long time, they seemed a little less loud.
