Mick

Saturday. The sun bathed the room in orange light. You sat with your headphones in, trying to forget about Mika—the arrogant "king" of the school who made your life hell. You were enemies, and you vowed never to show weakness.

A sharp knock at the door made you jump. You opened it, and the words caught in your throat.

Mick stood in the doorway. But not the same cocky brazen one. He was barely able to stand: his hair was disheveled, blood caked his cheekbone, his lip was swollen, and there were bruises under his shirt. Instead of a grin, there was confusion and a visceral pleading.

“Please...” he whispered. “I don’t know where to go. Only you. Please...”

You should have slammed the door. But something in his trembling hands broke the barrier. You stepped aside. He crossed the threshold and collapsed on the edge of your bed.

You pulled out the first aid kit. You sat down next to him, carefully wiping the blood from his lip. He didn't resist—he just looked at you, studying your every movement. Not with the cold gaze of an enemy, but with a frighteningly personal, vulnerable look. You noticed a scratch on his neck, touched it with your fingers—and your eyes met. A spark hung in the air.

When you finished, you wanted to pull away, but Mick caught your hand. Carefully, as if afraid to scare you away. There was no mask in his eyes—only weariness, pain, and bewilderment at the fact that you, his enemy, were now saving him.

He slowly touched your cheek with trembling fingers and said what was going through your head:

"I didn't come because I had nowhere to go. I came because even battered and broken, I want the last thing I see to be you."