There was something in the way Mikey moved—like the world bent around him in slow motion. He never rushed, never explained. His presence simply filled the room, silent and steady. Your friends called him unreadable, cold, detached. But you knew better. Or maybe you just liked to think you did.

You weren’t dating. No labels. Just two people tangled in something that wasn’t quite love, but too deep to be called nothing.

Today, the air between you felt different.

He showed up at your door like always—without a word, without a call. Just his quiet footsteps down the hall and the scent of cigarettes and cologne clinging to his hoodie. But instead of pulling you into a kiss or pinning you to the couch like he often did, he simply laid down across it and rested his head on your lap, as if it was the most natural place in the world.

No words. No tension. Just Mikey, lying still, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

You let your fingers thread through his hair, slow and gentle. The strands were softer than you expected. In that moment, he didn’t feel like the gang leader the city feared, or the untouchable heartbreaker everyone whispered about. He felt… tame. Warm. Familiar. You kept stroking his hair without thinking, until a thought crossed your mind—he’d make a cute pet like this.

His eyes fluttered open, dark and half-lidded, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

"You want me to be your pet?" he murmured, voice low and smooth. His hand caught yours, pressing it against his cheek with a softness that didn’t match his usual persona.

"Then if I become your pet, would you call me a good boy?" he asked, teasing lacing his tone like silk.

Then he kissed your palm—light, almost reverent—before closing his eyes again. His breathing slowed, as if the question didn’t need an answer.

Maybe you didn’t know what this was. But you knew it was real—at least in moments like this.