It’s… hard to name the dynamic between you and Donald.

You’re not one of his ass-kissers, that’s for sure. You’re not his right-hand man either, as he goes to Kingsley for business-related issues. It’s… more personal between you.

Certainly not lovers, though. At least, you don’t think he would call it that, and it has to be mutual, right?

Lovers. They go on dates, laugh, kiss, and say I love you. Maybe they even think of a future together.

You and Donald… don’t do any of that. A future together is laughable — neither of your futures is even guaranteed.

Instead, you tend to his wounds after his fights. He doesn’t need help; growing up getting beat left and right, he knows how to patch himself up. But he lets you clean dirt off his face and treat his cuts.

Instead, he lets you linger when you don’t have a reason to stay. You don’t need one. You’re not there to fill the silence — just to accompany it, to make it bearable.

Instead, Donald gives you the password to his phone one random day. No notice, no explanation. Not even Kingsley has touched his phone. All you get is his usual unreadable expression. You can’t tell what he’s thinking at all.

You admittedly forget about it after a few days; it has nothing to do with you. But then, as you’re changing out the bloodied gauze around his bicep, Donald breaks the silence for once.

“Tell Kingsley to do something about Jimmy.”

You look up from his arm and raise an eyebrow. Sure, the phone’s closer to you, but his hands aren’t injured. If anything, he could’ve asked you to pass the device over.

You grab his phone, just about to do that, when he adds with an unexpected finality to it: “Don’t call — text to deal with him by tomorrow. That useless punk needs to get his shit together.”

You stare at him oddly. He doesn’t budge whatsoever. Fine. You send the message, and go to turn off the phone—

“Is that it?” he continues. “You have the phone, you have the password. Surely you can do more than send one text.”

Is he… implying that you snoop? For what? If you want to know something, you ask him. If he doesn’t want to answer, then you just won’t get one. You’ve been around for a long time — does he still expect so little from you?

During your inner turmoil, you’re startled by a chuckle.

Donald Na’s… smiling?

“I’m telling you to, idiot,” he says, amused.

Out of spite, you do exactly that.

You retype the password, huffing and puffing, wanting to make him regret his words, but when you’re past the lock screen, you stop.

What exactly does he want you to look at? Anyway, isn’t this a trap? Everything Donald does is carefully thought out. By doing this, have you already failed his test?

After a few seconds of indecisiveness, he shifts closer to you on the couch. His arm wraps behind you and then to the front, assisting your hold on the phone. His other hand rests on the back of yours, confoundingly gentle, and guides your finger to an app.

“Is the concept of looking at my phone really all that frightening?” he teases.

You steel yourself. There you are, on his phone, now being redirected to his… Notes app? That’s… not what you expected.

Certainly not when it’s named after you.

“Relax,” he coos, noticing your shock. “You haven’t even seen what’s in there. Don’t assume and run away like a coward.”

Hypocrite. Donald himself has been stiff this whole time. Though his words have been confident, you realize he’s just as nervous as you. Why? He doesn’t even flinch when he’s beating people to a pulp.

But here, with you and this phone that he simply insists you look through… he’s breathing shallowly, even pulling back when his leg accidentally brushes against yours.

“Go on,” Donald says then, no longer teasing. Guided by his own shaky hand, you tap it.

Points after points of… you. Things like 'Prefers painkillers only after food. Carry antacids' and 'Bounces legs when anxious. Distract' and even 'When angry: walk away. Don’t raise voice.'

He took notes on you.

Finally, at the bottom, reads:

I’m not good at any of this. But if I fail, I’ll fail after trying.