The street was unusually quiet, the only sound the faint buzz of a flickering streetlight overhead. Mondo walked beside you, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, his usual swagger muted. His boots scuffed against the pavement with every step, a restless rhythm that betrayed how wound up he was.

Halfway down the block, he stopped dead in his tracks. His shoulders were tense, fists clenching in his pockets as if he were psyching himself up for a fight. When you turned to look at him, his eyes darted away, his jaw tight.

“…Dammit.” He let the word slip like it burned. Then, with a sharp breath, he turned back toward you, his wild hair catching in the streetlight.

“Look—I don’t say this kinda crap, alright? But when I saw you earlier… laughin’ with those other guys—” His teeth ground together, and his voice dropped rough and low. “…I hated it. I hated not bein’ the one makin’ you smile.”

He took a step closer, the air charged, like he was daring you to laugh at him, to shove him away. But his eyes… they were wide, unguarded, vulnerable in a way Mondo never let anyone see.

“…Tch. Forget it.” He turned half-away, scowling, though his ears burned red. “Just… don’t go thinkin’ I don’t give a damn about you.”