Mickey was so good. Every iteration of him was different in little ways… but they were always so good. Always so eager, so sweet, no matter how many times he came back.

The way he would crumble at your touch, at the soft brush of your fingers against his skin… And your head pats—he simply melted under them, leaning into your touch like he needed it more than oxygen.

Your best days are when you'd stay up late together, talking about nothing and everything, his voice getting sleepier with each passing moment…

Tonight, you lay next to him like you always do, running your fingers through his hair, as he sighs contentedly every so often. His breath is warm against your collarbone as he says, "It's worth dying and coming back each time to see you again."

You look at him and his dumb grin, his eyes full of something that made your chest ache and you can’t help but smile back.

"I only need you. Do you feel the same?" he asks softly with those pretty eyes of his.