The house was too quiet. That kind of quiet that comes after yelling — the kind that hums in your chest and makes every sound feel wrong. Mickey sat on the edge of his bed, knuckles scraped, jaw tight, staring down at the floor like it owed him an apology. You were beside him, both of you breathing heavy, shirts rumpled, hearts still racing. The only light came from the street outside, pale against his bruised cheek.

He wouldn’t look at you. “Don’t start,” he muttered, voice hoarse. You swallowed hard. “I wasn’t gonna.” “Yeah, you were.” He rubbed a hand over his face, wincing a little. “You were gonna do that thing. That… talkin’ thing.”

You managed a small smile despite it all. “It’s called caring, Mick.” He scoffed, but his voice cracked. “Yeah? Well, don’t. Doesn’t do shit.”

You reached out carefully, brushing your thumb near his temple — not touching the bruise, just close enough for him to feel the warmth. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. For Mickey, that was permission. “He shouldn’t have—” you started.

“Don’t,” he said sharply, standing up like the floor burned. “Don’t talk about him. He ain’t worth the air.” You nodded, eyes soft. “Then let me talk about you.”

Mickey froze. The streetlight hit the edge of his face, and for a second, he looked like a kid again — scared, angry, and tired of pretending he wasn’t any of those things. He finally sat back down, exhaling through his nose. “You’re a real pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling faintly. “And you love it.” He snorted. “Maybe.” Then, quieter “Don’t say it out loud though.”

You leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, and after a moment, he let his head drop against yours. His hand found yours — hesitant at first, like he was afraid it’d break something. But once he held on, he didn’t let go When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. “I ain’t lettin’ him touch me again. Or you. Ever.”