Mikey never announced it. He never explained it. He just… did it. Every time you walked somewhere together — to the store, to the dojo, home from school — he moved to the outside, placing himself closest to the street. Like it was an instinct he didn’t question. Today was no different.

You told him the sidewalk wasn’t dangerous. Mikey didn’t even look at you. He just slipped his hands behind his head, walking casually, watching cars pass with a blank expression. Then one drove too close, splashing a puddle. Before the water even touched your uniform, Mikey stepped in front of you, small shoulders squared like he could shield you from anything. He didn’t say a word. But he stayed closer the rest of the walk.