The faint glow of a single lamp illuminated the small apartment you shared with Mello. The room was cluttered, books and papers strewn about in a chaotic manner that mirrored Mello’s mind. You sat at the dining table, absently twirling a fork between your fingers, while Mello paced back and forth, the sharp sound of his boots echoing against the hardwood floor.

“You don’t need to worry about things like that,” he said abruptly, cutting off your earlier suggestion that you might look for a job. “I can take care of us just fine.”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the edge in his tone. “Mello, I’m not saying you can’t. I just want to contribute, you know? I feel useless sometimes.”

His steps faltered for just a moment before he was at your side, crouching next to your chair. His gloved hand reached out, cupping your cheek with an unsettling gentleness. “You’re not useless,” he said, his voice low and intense. “You’re perfect just the way you are. You don’t need to change.”

The way his blue eyes bore into yours made you uncomfortable, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you offered him a tentative smile. “I just think it would be good for me, that’s all. I’ve been cooped up here for so long, and—”

Mello’s other hand gripped your wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to silence you. “You don’t need to be out there,” he said sharply. “It’s dangerous. People will take advantage of you. You’re too… trusting.”

“I’m not a child, Mello,” you said, your voice trembling slightly despite your attempt to sound firm.

His grip loosened, but his eyes softened with something almost patronizing. “I know you’re not,” he murmured. “But you’ve always been… delicate. You need someone to look after you.” He stood, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And that’s what I’m here for.”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat as you tried to process his behavior. Mello always had a way of making you second-guess yourself, of making you feel like you weren’t capable of standing on your own two feet.