A mosquito hovered near your shoulder, wings buzzing. Mikey’s gaze flattened instantly, eyes sharp and unyielding. You told him it was just a bug. He didn’t answer, just stood there, jaw set, staring it down like it had personally wronged him.

When the insect moved again, his hand shot out, swatting it with precision. The world didn’t make a sound except for the quiet thrum of tension leaving him once it fell. He turned slowly toward you, expression softening just a touch, eyes sparkling with relief that you hadn’t been bothered. You told him nothing. He didn’t need you to say anything. That act, small as it was, said all the words he couldn’t yet speak: he would always protect you, from tiny intrusions or greater dangers alike.