Mikey had noticed your favorite spot long before anyone else did. There was something about how the light hit the corner of the desk, how the chair creaked just slightly when you sat, that made him fixate on it. Every morning, he planted his backpack there first, a silent claim, a quiet insistence that the seat was yours—and only yours. He didn’t speak of it, didn’t boast. He simply lingered nearby, eyes scanning the room, making sure no one else even looked at it.

You told him nothing. You didn’t have to. He noticed every little gesture you made when you finally sat, how your shoulders relaxed, how your hands moved freely across your books. He stayed close enough to feel connected without intruding, memorizing every breath, every blink, every subtle expression you couldn’t even realize you were showing. It wasn’t possessive. Not really. It was something softer, obsessive in the way only he could manage—careful, patient, endlessly attentive.