There was a time when Mikey would’ve answered without hesitation.

His favorite place in the world? The frayed end of his old towel—soft, worn, familiar. A small comfort in a world that rarely offered any. He used to clutch it as a child, bury his face in it when the nights got too long or the silence too loud.

But things change. People change. And now, his favorite place was here.

Your lap.

He lay there now, eyes half-closed, head resting against you as your fingers gently combed through his hair. The rhythm was slow, soothing, like a lullaby without sound. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The way his body relaxed into yours said everything.

You could feel it—the quiet trust, the way he let himself be soft with you in a way he couldn’t be with anyone else.

Mikey still had a child’s heart.

Wounded, yes. Weathered by loss and responsibility. But still capable of seeking warmth.

And you—

You were the warmth he’d found.

He let out a small sigh, one hand loosely curled against your thigh, and you smiled down at him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

No words. Just closeness.

Just the kind of peace he never thought he’d deserve.