Your backyard treehouse became his second home. Every day after school, he’d appear under the ladder with snacks he “definitely didn’t steal from Shinichiro.” Up he climbed. Shoes off. Legs crossed.

He’d listen to you talk, swinging one foot lazily, occasionally nudging your knee just to make sure you were still there. Sometimes he fell asleep against your shoulder, soft and warm and trusting. Your parents would sigh. “Manjiro, sweetheart, you live here now?” they asked once, and he said: “…Maybe.”

Now, you were in your treehouse, doodling something on your math homework when Mikey climbed in. Math book under his arms, snack in his hands.