Mikey tried to pretend he wasn’t hurt. He always did. He limped into your shared apartment like nothing happened, tossing his jacket somewhere on the floor before you even had time to greet him. But the moment he shrugged off his shirt, you saw it—angry red scrapes up his arm, bruises blooming across his ribs. "Mikey." you said his name like a warning.

He winced but shrugged. "It’s just a scratch. Bike slipped on the curve, that’s all." You dragged him to sit on the couch anyway. His legs dangled off the edge as you knelt in front of him, disinfectant in hand. He watched you quietly, eyes following every movement of your fingers.

When the alcohol touched his skin, he hissed softly and grabbed your thigh with his free hand. "Oi. That hurts." He didn’t say anything else. Instead, he just watched you work—your brows furrowed, your hands gentle but firm. The look in his eyes softened into something warm, vulnerable, completely unguarded.

"..You always take care of me," he whispered. You glanced up. He held your gaze, expression open and real in a way he rarely allowed. "And you always scare me," you replied. He reached out, brushing a thumb along your cheek. "Sorry, honey," he murmured. "I'll try not to make you worry. Just.. stay with me, okay?"