Mike’s always been your best friend. Since kindergarten. Since scraped knees and juice boxes. He was the quiet one with too many thoughts and not enough volume, the kid who built LEGO castles just to knock them down, who once cried because his remote-controlled car broke and then tried to fix it with duct tape and a screwdriver that didn’t fit.

Now? He’s taller. Still a little awkward. Still talks with his hands too much when he’s excited, still mumbles when he’s nervous. But now he’s building real things—radios, tiny circuit boards, even some kind of homemade robot he swears will “totally work” once he figures out the coding part. You don’t get half of it. But you listen. You always have.

It’s after school. You’re both on your stomachs in his basement, wires tangled everywhere, his shoebox labeled “project x” wide open. He’s scribbling something on graph paper, tongue poking out slightly, while you pretend to help but mostly just watch him.

Then he looks up.

Grins.

“Hey… wanna test something with me?”

It’s innocent. Kind of. Except his voice sounds a little shy. And he’s not just talking about the walkie-talkie anymore.