The Schmidt household, despite being headed by the CEO of a large and very prominent electronics company, wasn't that much different interior-wise from the houses of other upper-middle-class citizens. Sure, there were one or two more luxury items than one would generally find in the average home, but for the most part—one would be hard-pressed to distinguish it from a "normal house". And the bathrooms were no exception to this.

For example, in the upstairs bathroom one would find all the usual toiletries: shampoo, conditioner, body wash, shaving cream—the list goes on. They would find a toilet (duh), a shower/bath tub (also duh), and a sink (obviously). And, if one were to look in the mirror hung on the wall just above the sink, they would see the reflection of a man with shaving cream slathered on his face. A very frustrated looking Mike Schmidt.

Rolling his jaw in irritation, he put the razor to his face and began killing off the beginnings of what could have been a great beard, if given more time to grow.

"Such bullshit…" Mike grumbled, turning his head a bit to get a better angle.

He had been driven home from the arena hours before by his mother. After eating some lunch and taking a quick shower, Mike had eventually settled with sitting down in his room to watch a movie. A rather dramatic boxing-based movie, to be particular. When that movie ended, he simply put in another movie. Hours later his mother barged into the basement room, telling him to begin getting ready for dinner.

"What do you mean?" he had asked.

His mother had left the room, but yelled out to him from the stairs, saying, "Take another shower—I know you took one earlier, but wash very thoroughly this time. Shave whatever stubble you have, and most importantly: put on some nice clothes."

"What—why?"

"Because I don't want to seem like slobs to our guest tonight, Michael! Now get going!"

So he did. Though it took nearly twice as long, this shower was just as uneventful as the first one. And while it pissed him off that he already had to get rid of his facial hair—having wanted a beard for several years—here he was, anyway. Begrudgingly shaving it off before it even began.

Once Mike was sure he hadn't missed any spots, turning his head this way and that to scan his jawline and chin, he set the razor down. Somehow, Mike managed to not cut himself this time. Not a single nick! After splashing some warm water onto his face to get rid of any leftover hairs, Mike looked at himself in the mirror and had to admit—

He didn't actually look horrible.

Sure there were a couple of bruises remaining on his face from his match the day before, and there was that cut still, but at least he hadn't lost any teeth to that chick. And with no blackeye to speak of, Mike felt pretty lucky. Of course, Mike's chest and shoulders were a completely different story in this, but that wasn't surprising to him in the slightest. At least he healed fast.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Mike strode down two flights of stairs and mentally prepared himself for the third—and hopefully final—part of preparing for the dinner. Even when compared to shaving those all too youthful hair follicles, this last part was what he was looking forward to the absolute least. Dressing up. Mike shivered at the mere idea itself.

Shutting the bedroom door behind him, Mike walked over to his closet and scowled. His hands moved to take hold of the doorknob, but he stopped there.

Honestly, now that he really thought about it...he wasn't even sure if he had what could be considered "dress clothing". Mike generally wore just a t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts; which were replaced by sweat pants whenever it got too chilly. His policy for clothing had always been prioritizing function over fashion, and as such he felt uncomfortable in anything too frilly. He wasn't about to argue with his mother though (especially with the dinner happening later), so after taking a deep inhale through his nose—Mike pulled open and stepped into the walk-in closet.

His suspicion was quickly confirmed. Even after thoroughly checking in between each and every hung up shirt, the best that Mike could find was a tacky sweater from years back. And it was a good thing that he hadn't worn the thing in such a long time. Mike tossed it out onto his bed, telling himself that he'd throw the thing out the next chance he got. He resumed his fruitless search.

Of course, Mike did find an old dress shirt eventually. Buried deep in one of a few bins of extra clothes he had set on a closet shelf, there was a midnight blue button-up shirt. But the smile that had formed on Mike's face then only lasted a second, because as he quickly discovered—the damn thing was nearly three sizes too small.

"Shit..." whispered Mike. He held the article of clothing up to his chest and let out a low whistle. "No wonder it ended up in that box."

With an amused shake of his head Mike lifted the shirt up to discard it back in the bin, but then stopped. Suddenly an idea came to mind. It was a dumb little thing, but even then...Mike couldn't help his laughing as he started unbuttoning the shirt.

The pleasant aroma of chicken cooking in the oven brought a smile to Kim Schmidt's face. A favorite dish of hers since childhood—baked chicken was often something she cooked when the family didn't go out that night. And while her husband had initially suggested having something like steak, or even lobster for their guest tonight, Kim had stoutly disagreed. Having plenty of experience being a guest at somebody else's house, she didn't want Foxy to feel like she was making them spend a lot of money.

With her husband's position in his company, the two of them had often ended up having dinner at the house of another employee, or that of a different company's CEO. And every single time—Kim had felt like a burden. A house that would generally serve something like spaghetti would instead serve some expensive gourmet dish while they were there.

"Foxy will feel welcome in our home..." mumbled Kim, her high heels clacking as she walked over to the sink and washed her hands. "...even if it kills me..."

Seconds later, she heard footsteps quickly coming up the basement stairs.

Kim turned to greet whoever it was, but the speech died in her mouth once she saw it was her son turning the corner to the kitchen. Though, it wasn't it being him that caught her off-guard so much. It was what he was wearing.

That...that dark blue button-up shirt, one she hadn't seen Mike wear since he like eleven, was stretched and distorted so much by his muscular build that parts of the shirts were already tearing under the built-up pressure. It was practically begging to explode at any second now.

"Michael, just...what?" stammered Kim, facepalming.

Mike said nothing to that. Instead, the mild smile on his face just broadened in response.

Taking a deep breath, Kim shook her head and mumbled, "Just...just tell me something."

"Yes?"

"WHY?"

Mike started laughing, and from there the chain reaction of his shirt's rapid deterioration began. A loud RIP erupted throughout the kitchen as more and more of the shirt tore open to reveal his flesh underneath. First one button flew off. Then another. Within seconds it had gone from being an overly stretched shirt—to simply being a tattered collection of strings and cloth.

During that rather chaotic event, Kim had just stood there in silent awe. There were no words for what had just happened. Well, no decent words, anyway. Mrs. Schmidt wasn't one for vulgar language. Mike on the other hand, was simply hysterical with laughter. His chest ached from the howling (and the remains of the poor shirt still clinging to his torso didn't help much either), but honestly...Mike didn't care. How long had it been since he last laughed this hard?

Near a minute passed before the man got a break. Wiping a tear from his eye, Mike bent over slightly and put his hands on the countertop to support himself. He whooped softly, a toothy grin on his face as he looked back at his mom.

That look alone was enough to bring a smile to Kim's face.

"Please...Michael, could you tell me WHY it felt necessary to do that? You know I'm gonna have to clean all that up before Foxy gets here, now," she stated, trying and failing to force a frown at that last part.

"Sorry," said Mike. "Just...wanted to show you what my best option for formal clothing was."

"Really?"

Mike nodded, not giving a verbal response due to his currently being busy with the removal of the dress shirt's pitiful remains.

Frowning, Kim hummed in thought. "Hm...have you asked dad if he had anything in your size?"

"Nope."

"Then I would definitely suggest doing so."

With a nod, Mike turned to start searching for his father, but felt a hand softly grip his shoulder. He glanced over it to see his mother looking at him with a pleading expression.

"Listen, Michael...I know you're not exactly the type of person to wear a suit and tie every day of the week, but I just...just…" Kim trailed off, searching for the most fitting way to phrase it.

Having noticed how antsy his mother had been in preparation for the dinner tonight, Mike was able to easily finish her thought. "...really want our family to make a good first impression tonight?"

"Yes! Yes, exactly."

Mike gently pushed her hand off of his shoulder. "Don't worry, mom. It'll go fine."

"Right, right…" mumbled Kim with a slow nod. Anxiously rolling her shoulders, she spun around, and her heels clacked once more against the kitchen tile as she walked back to the counter, where there was bag of vegetables ready to be washed and cut up. As she picked up the large chopping knife, Kim looked up once more, watching her son disappear into the living room behind the partial wall.

"How about...this?"

Standing near his closet, Victor Schmidt held up a transparent garment bag in front of him toward Mike. For the past five or so minutes, the two of them had already gone through ten different suits. Each one looked quite literally identical to the last, but as Victor had put it: "trust me, with each one there are small, but very important differences to be seen."

After looking this specific suit over twice, Mike shook his head again and asked, "Are you sure you haven't already shown me this one?"

"Absolutely, positively sure."

"Hm," Mike grunted an affirmance, then examined this particular tux once more. Nothing. He could spot no difference between this one and any of the other ones. It was the same gray. The tie was the exact same black, too. He frowned and looked back to his dad. "...you sure…?"

Then, surprising him, Victor let out a snort and smiled. "Maybe?"

"Dad."

"Haha—you know I'm just messing with ya'," said Victor, softly chuckling to himself. "Although...maybe I did grab the wrong suit…"

"Dad."

"Kidding! Kidding. Just trying to lighten the mood a bit before we have to go pick that trainer of yours up in a while, you know? You would not believe how stressed your mom has been about this whole thing…" Victor mumbled, rolling his eyes with a low whistle.

That made Mike smile. "I've seen."

"Figured you would have," admitted Victor. He smiled, then handed the garment bag over to Mike. "Anyway...does this one look good to you?"

"Yes, dad. Hell, I said the first one looked good to me."

"I know, it's just—I sometimes forget you're not the 'businessman' that I am," said the man, his normally gleeful blue eyes suddenly losing that usual brightness. "Suits aren't exactly what you wear on a near daily basis."

Mike grabbed the bag from him and let it drape over his arm. "Business just isn't my thing. You know that, dad. I'm a boxer."

"Son, we've already had this argument before, trust me—I'm well aware of your choice in career."

"Mhmm."

"Anyway, speaking of—you call your trainer yet? We gotta be heading out soon."

"Not...yet..." Mike reluctantly answered, rubbing the back of his head. To be perfectly honest, he had actually almost forgotten about that part. For some reason it...actually made him feel bad. It was still a pretty foreign concept to consider Foxy as a friend, but the realization that she had almost completely slipped his mind brought a strange sour feeling to his gut.

Seemingly unaware to the conflict within the young man's head, Victor shooed him out with an over-exaggerated sweep of his hands. "Well, get goin', then!" he commanded. "I have to get dressed too, you know!"

If it hadn't been for the feeling of distress in him, Mike might've gotten a laugh out of that. He remained solemnly silent as he jogged down the stairs to his room. Shutting the door behind him, Mike dropped the garment bag onto his comforter and slumped down next to it. His hands clenched and unclenched. It felt like he was trying to swallow a rock as he gulped. Why do I feel so...guilty for such a minor thing? Mike wondered, furrowing his brow.

What the hell's happened to me?

An image of Foxy popped into his mind then, and suddenly he was reminded that he was supposed to be doing something at the moment. He pushed himself to his feet, and although his mind was still currently whirling—he grunted, and unzipped the garment bag. The suit didn't look half bad. Sure, it was a tiny bit itchy. It felt a little tight, well—almost everywhere—but that didn't surprise Mike at all. Even though his dad did have a similar build to him; with Mike being an athlete, it was obvious that he was going to be quite a bit bulkier than him. And in a suit that had been tailored to perfectly fit his father's proportions, that didn't leave him too much breathing room. It worked, though. And that was what mattered the most at the moment.

Mike now stood, checking himself over in the mirror. Still didn't consider himself a formal clothing type of person (and doubted he ever would), but Mike didn't think he looked much like a "slob", at least. Mother appeasal? Check. That just left one thing. Calling Foxy. Easier said than done for Mike, but he was committed at this point.

Picking his cell phone up off the nightstand, he activated the screen and went to the contacts. Mike hovered a shaking finger over the screen. He clenched his eyes, mentally running through what he would say to Foxy before finally just tapping her number and bringing the phone to his ear.

For a brief period of a few seconds, a teeny-tiny part of Mike hoped that she just wouldn't pick up. After around eight or nine rings, though—right when he was starting to believe that she actually WOULDN'T—he heard her voice.

"Hey!"

"Uh, hey Fox—"

"Sorry I'm not currently available to take your call right now, but if wanna leave a message I'll try to get back to ya' as soon as—"

Mike huffed and ended the call right then. Seriously? he thought, glaring down at the phone. Well, there went any of the anxiousness that he previously had. Now he was just irritated. Taking a deep breath, Mike held it there for a moment before gradually releasing it, and the anger, from his system.

"Well...I can't just go there without seeing if she's ready," Mike thought, scratching his chin. He frowned upon feeling the surprisingly smooth skin there, but ignored it as just being a minor inconvenience. "I should probably call her again, just to make su—"

Whether it was by coincidence or if Foxy had some strange power that let her know when she was mentioned, Mike wasn't sure—because at that very moment the phone rang.

The phone nearly slipped out of his hands with how fast he swung it to his ear.

"Er—hello?"

"Um, hi—I mean...hey! H-how are ya'?"

Mike noted how different her voice sounded from its more confident recorded version, but simply stated that 'he was fine.'

"G-good! That's good. Great, actually. So...ahem, are—are ya' guys gonna be getting here sometime soon?"

At this point, Mike had left his room and was halfway up the steps to the living room. "Yeah. Just about to leave, actually. Should be there in about…20-to-25 minutes, I think," he replied, adjusting his collar with his free hand. "Will you be ready by then?"

"I'm um...I'm ready right now, actually," Foxy admitted after a brief pause.

"Oh."

Near the front door, dressed in a similar suit to Mike's, Victor was just getting finished with the tying of his shoes when he saw him approaching. He stood and straightened his tie. "Ah! There you are." Then, he noticed that Mike had a phone to his ear and politely lowered his volume a few notches. "She ready?"

Mike quickly nodded and with an up-and-down motion of his hand, told his father that he'd be out the door in just a moment. "As I was trying to say, sorry for keeping you waiting then. Be there shortly. Will you be waiting inside, or—"

"Yes! I'll be waiting inside. In the lobby," answered Foxy, her still shaking voice somewhat audible over the door closing behind Victor. "Just come to the front when ya' get here, 'kay?"

Mike nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him nodding, and hurriedly said, "Got it. So...see you then?"

"Yep!"

CLICK

Well, that caught him off-guard. Mike blinked. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he looked at the screen—which reactivated almost immediately—and saw that Foxy had just up and ended the call. Without even saying "goodbye"? He pondered with a quirked brow. Then, he simply just shrugged it off and stowed the phone away into a pocket.

If one were to walk straight into the house through the front, immediately to the right of the door they would see a tiny room that acted as a closet to the family and any possible guests. It was in this closet that Mike found his winter coat, hung up right where it had been left nearly a year before, when Spring had arrived and it was no longer necessary. Putting the coat on over the suit, Mike suddenly wished that this was still true. It felt incredibly awkward. Just another thing he would have to endure tonight, though.

Mike pulled the front door open a crack, and even with both the suit and the warmth of a jacket to protect him—that initial blast of bitter, frigid air hitting him made his teeth chatter. He let out a puff of air, made visible by the lowered temperatures, and then the man fully stepped outside.

It was truly the blizzard the news stations had made it out to be. He hurried across the porch and lawn, the thick blanket of snow crunching beneath his leather dress shoes. As soon as Mike made it over to the already running car, he yanked the door open and hurled himself into the passenger seat.

"You good?" asked Victor, fingers tapping patiently on the wheel.

After a brief pause to catch his breath, Mike nodded, throwing the seatbelt over his shoulder and torso. The moment it connected to the receiver and made a soft click, he pulled a pair of gloves from his coat pockets and put them on.

"Alrighty then, son. Let's get rolling."

The car made a soft purr as it backed out of the driveway. Victor was extra cautious in checking for any other vehicles coming down the road, as the heavily falling snow made it difficult to see. Once he checked both ways multiple times and saw no cars, nor headlights indicating the presence of said cars on the residential road, he completely backed into the street—paused for a second more—then shifted the gear to Drive, and took his foot off the brakes. With near silence aside from the slushed snow beneath the tires, the car took off down the road.