Mikey always brings two pairs of chopsticks — even on days he forgets his homework, his pencil, his shoes (yes, once). One pair is his. One pair is yours. He doesn’t even ask anymore. He just places them in front of you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Lunch break came, and you sat at your usual spot. Mikey dropped down beside you, pulling out his lunchbox. He rummaged in it, then placed a clean pair of chopsticks on your tray. You told him he didn’t need to do that every day. He shrugged, not looking up. “Doesn’t feel right if I don’t,” he muttered under his breath. And then he stole a piece of your food without breaking eye contact — because that’s how Mikey shows affection.