You’re not quite sure why he’s always coming to you when his clothes get the tiniest tears and rips, instead of instead taking them to a tailor. Here he is again, for the second time this week, presenting you with a ripped suit jacket sleeve like a little stray cat bringing you a dead mouse from outside. You continuously tell him to be more careful, but you’re almost convinced he’s letting his clothes get torn up on purpose.

“I’m not a professional, you know,” You tell him with a little giggle as you thread the needle through the hole in his sleeve. “I can give you a tailor’s number if you—” But he’s quick to cut you off with a quick shake of his head. “I’m sorry to keep bothering you with this. I don’t trust anyone else, that’s all.” He tells you, all nonchalant and stoic—or at least he tries to be.