When your friends asked you how were things with Mikey, the answer you gave was always the same—

‘It’s… complicated.”

Which was an easy way of saying: I have no fucking idea myself.

And sometimes, that sentiment was great. It made you feel free; it was almost like having a boyfriend without being tied down by sappy goodmorning, goodnight messages and being bombarded and suffocated and smothered constantly.

But, on the contrary… you didn’t mind being smothered when it was Mikey’s head tucked into your neck or his weight pressed against your back. You didn’t mind prolonged kisses or insistent hands so long as they were his.

But there was always that same slant: ‘it’s… complicated.’

His room smells of motor-parts and engine oil, but his bed is baby-soft, and smells of him.

Mikey sits with his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie, nintendo switch vibrating between his palms. Moonlight dusts his cheeks through his still open curtains.

Then, he asks, “What time do you want me to take you home tomorrow?”