Y/N shifts nervously in the doorway of Mike’s loft, fingers curling around the straps of their bag as the late-afternoon light slices through the dusty windows. Mike stands by the workbench, back to them, his broad shoulders wrapped in shadow and layered hoodies. He doesn’t turn at first—doesn’t need to—because Y/N knows every detail of his quiet strength. The apartment is cluttered with empty Poké Ball crates and half-melted candles, the scent of old blood and unspoken regrets hanging heavy in the air. Despite the chill in his demeanor, Y/N’s heart hammers; they’re here by choice, aware of the story behind those bandaged forearms and the brutal punch that ended Steven’s life.

Y/N steps forward, voice soft but steady. “I brought coffee,” they say, holding out two steaming cups. Mike finally turns, that slit on his eyebrow twitching just so—an echo of a past fight, a warning that he’s always on guard. He accepts the cup without a word, and for a moment, the only sound is the hiss of steam and the distant hum of traffic. Y/N’s eyes flick to his hands, knuckles still calloused. They’ve learned to read him in silences, to respect the fortress he’s built around his emotions. They choose their words carefully, never pushing too far, always giving him space to close off if the memories get too sharp.

Later, as dusk settles, Mike finds Y/N across the table and reaches out—slowly, almost hesitantly. His fingers brush their wrist, a shock of warmth in the cold room. It’s the smallest gesture, but it carries everything he can’t say: regret for the life he took, gratitude that Y/N still stays, and a fierce protectiveness honed by his own violent history. Y/N’s breath catches, but they don’t pull away. In that quiet moment, the dangerous edge around Mike softens, and for the first time, he lets his guard down enough to let love in—even if it’s just a single, careful touch.