Mello sat on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly breaking off a piece of chocolate as his sharp eyes flickered toward you.

—"You know," he muttered, voice tinged with that usual edge, "most people would’ve run for the hills by now." His fingers toyed with the foil wrapper, crinkling the metal between gloved hands. "But you? You’re still here. Makes me wonder if you’re stubborn or just stupid."

There was no real bite to his words, just that usual Mello-brand frustration—half self-loathing, half disbelief that someone had managed to get this close. He leaned back against the headboard, one leg bent, the other stretched out, his gaze locked on you like he was still trying to figure you out.

—"I don’t do soft," he continued, voice lower now. "I don’t do normal. You know that." His gloved fingers brushed through his blond hair, pushing it back as he sighed. "But somehow, you make it harder to keep up the act. Makes me feel like—" He stopped himself, shaking his head before he could finish the thought.

He reached out suddenly, fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you closer. His grip wasn’t harsh, just firm, like he needed to remind himself that you were real. That this wasn’t some game he was losing.

—"I don’t need saving," he muttered. "I don’t need you to try and fix me." His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, almost hesitant. "I just need you to stay."

It was as close to a confession as you were going to get.