Coming home from a long day at work to a house that’s far too quiet. Neither Michael nor your daughter answer when you call them, and you start to worry, until you run into the living room and find them both passed out on the couch, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles playing quietly on the TV in the corner. Michael would be flat on his back, your daughter lying curled against his chest, his arm looped around her so she wouldn’t fall, and a small smile would slip onto your face. You’d take in the small snores coming from both members of your little family, your daughter in her ‘My Daddy Rocks’ t-shirt and purple tutu, her long blond hair falling out of its braids, Michael in one of his innumerable flannels, and have to stifle a laugh when you catch sight of the hot pink clip in his blonde hair. You’d snap a picture and tiptoe away, changing into more comfortable clothes before joining them. Michael would blink one eye open and mumble something ridiculous about pizza before moving over to make room for you, winding his free arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your forehead.