When you were kids, Mikey hated when people touched his head. Except you. He let you adjust his tiny ponytail, poke his cheeks, and ruffle his hair. Emma used to tease him endlessly for it.

Now you’re both older, and that one rule hasn’t changed. One afternoon you brushed his bangs aside without thinking. Mikey froze. Completely. He grabbed your wrist gently, cheeks pink. "what.. are you doing.."