But every morning, the space beneath my ribs blooms from the sight of him leaning against his motorcycle, muscled arms straining against a black t-shirt, with cargo pants belted around his hips.

I didn’t believe people when they said puberty does wonders, but Christ, they weren’t lying. He’s turned into the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

Mickey smiles from ear to ear the second he sees me. Not a devilish smirk or a mischievous grin, a smile. Does he smile like that at Cassie?

I shake my head internally. There’s no point in being jealous. It’s not like he’s ever made a move that might suggest I’m anything more than just a good friend. Or little sister. Gross.

“Morning, sweet Bella.”

Another thing I didn’t believe about puberty is how deep a voice could get.

The butterflies seem to be activated by voice command as well, because the deeper his voice gets, the crazier they react.

“Morning,” I whisper, unable to look into his eyes. They’re too hypnotizing, and the last thing I need is for the gremlins in my stomach to make my cheeks heat and for me to become all giggly.

I’m still studying and work at Greg’s shop a couple of times a week. I’m practically a child compared to Mickey now. Maybe Cassie is more his style because they both have the same kind of responsibilities.

The wings on those pesky butterflies sag every time I think of her. He hasn’t given me a reason to believe he’s into her, but who could ever fall in love with a girl who’s missing a part of her heart? Not to mention that Cassie is prettier.

Mickey reaches behind him and pulls out a plaid green pencil case filled to the brim with stationary, probably—hopefully.

The answer is obvious, but as I said, I don’t know how to function around him.

“I—"

He chucks it in my direction, and I already know I’m going to miss it. I lurch forward to catch it and fumble uselessly as it falls to the ground.

He chuckles, and I turn red. I’m too caught up in the sound of his deep voice and my incoordination to glare at him, though.

He doesn't say anything if he’s noticed I’m getting shier around him.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the prick likes that I keep getting flustered.

It’s so stupid. All I want to do is impress him, when I’ve quite literally done every embarrassing thing possible in his presence. I drooled all over him when I fell asleep on him two years ago, threw up on him once when I got car sick, went through an acne phase, and tripped over my feet more times than I can count. Oh God, and when I was twelve, I thought I was an amazing singer and tried serenading him by singing “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. He even caught me rehearsing it beforehand.

But that’s not the worst part. My rehearsals involved a complete dance routine.

I want to crawl into a hole and die just thinking about it.

I miss the days when I didn’t have a ridiculous, soul-consuming crush on Roman Riviera. The time when I could argue with him day and night because I wasn’t yearning for his approval. Now, like some idiotic little girl, all he needs to do is look at me, and I’m a puddle.

“I will hear nothing from you, because the pencil case has nothing to do with your birthday.”

“Hmm? Oh, right. Thank you.” I swallow as I quickly shove the pencil case into my bag, ignoring the hot blood rushing up my neck toward my face.

Two days ago, I told him I had forgotten my pencil case on the bus when we went on a field trip. This is just what Mickey does; he gets me things I need and things I never asked for.

Like the shirt I’m wearing of a Sumatran tiger, which is not stolen from anyone. We listened to a documentary on tigers a couple of months ago, and I decided then and there that they’re my new favorite animal. They’re the smallest breed of tigers, and there are only four hundred of them left in the world. I tried to hide the fact that it made me a little emotional, but Mickey must have seen right through it because, a week later, he gave me this t-shirt with the WWF tag still on it and a card that said, Thank you for your donation.

It was probably the first and last charitable thing Mickey will do in his life.“You get your actual present tonight.”

My heart soars. He’s spending less and less time with me at night. He always has some kind of excuse relating to work for why he has to leave early or not see me at all. He also seems to be perpetually bruised and tired. Case in point: his purple knuckles and the patchwork of yellow and green on his cheek.

Mickey told me he’s working so much because he’s saving up for when I graduate.

That makes sense, but the problem with his argument is that he’s a mechanic, and mechanics don’t normally work night shifts. Or get bloody knuckles and bruises.

I never knew him to be a liar, but he can be tricky, mincing words so they’re only half-truths. All it takes is for another half to disappear, and it’s a full lie.

I nod, and the slight twitch of his brow is the only sign he’s displeased with my response. If I weren’t so woozy and awestruck, I would tease him and say it’s because he forgot to get me something or joke that I made plans with Jeremy and he’s not invited.

It’d make him all angry and jealous, then he’d throw a little hissy fit and tell me he’d throw me over his shoulder and whisk me away. Then he’d say, “Tradition is tradition. I wasn’t asking.”

Mickey is big on his traditions, even though he only has three of them that I know of.

One, we celebrate every birthday together, because even though there’s two years of difference between us, we promised to never leave each other's side.

Two, I can be certain I’m going to receive something to do with Mickey Mouse as one of my gifts. Every birthday, without fail, I’ll have another item to add to my ever-growing collection.

Three, rain, hail, or shine, Mickey will be there to take me to and from school. Before I left for a year, he’d sometimes miss a day or two because he woke up too late. Since I got back, I’ve had to wake up earlier just so he doesn’t need to wait outside for so long.

He saunters toward me—well, he’s walking normally, but I can’t stop staring at how his hips move, so he might as well be sauntering. I watch him through my lashes as he towers over me and tilts my head up with a calloused finger under my chin.

“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he whispers.

Beautiful. Not cute or pretty. He thinks I’m beautiful.

I move my head to the side and hide my face with my hair to stop him from noticing the blush tinting my cheeks, but it’s useless. Especially when I stop breathing because he moves my face back and his lips descend against my forehead.

“Another year of you and me.”

The chain around my neck tugs, but I stay completely still as I feel the heat radiate through the cotton as he checks the pendant. He makes a sound of approval that practically melts my insides.

I don’t miss how his eyes drop to my chest every time I see him, like he’s checking it’s still there. The corners of his mouth tilt up, and he does a little nod that I’m not sure is meant for him or me.

But I get it. I have that feeling whenever I see the bracelet around his wrist—a new one because he seems to break it every two years.

Thanks to the advancement of technology and since Mick started working full time at the garage, we both have phones and a decent camera. This means that he spends all day, every day, taking photos of everything but himself, and I have half a million selfies with him. Now, on one side of the locket, I have something to remember Ma, and on the other side, there’s a picture of Mickey and me.

“Did you eat breakfast? What do you have for lunch?” Mickey asks.

I stiffen. These questions are worse than random tests at school because at least I have a chance of passing them. Mickey’s questions, on the other hand, are an instant fail. Straight to detention (also known as Roman’s blistering glare and his huff of disapproval).