He always wore that same black helmet - scratched, a little worn, carrying the scent of gasoline and something that felt like summer. But today, he pressed it into your hands. "Wear it."

"Mikey, I'm not even riding-"

"Wear it," he said again, softer this time. His fingers brushed yours when you took it, eyes flickering for just a second before he looked away. You placed it on your head, clumsy and oversized, and he laughed under his breath. "Looks better on you." He turned before you could see the grin he tried to hide - the kind that gave him away every time.