Page 25 of Loverboy

“Alright.” I turned to the side, tearing open a garbage bag full of my clothes and yanking a sweater free from the heap. “Put that on, idiot, you’re gonna freeze to death.”

Even after we got into the car, he barely spoke. His eyes were glued to the passenger window, his face buried in the collar of my hoodie. Over the hum of the engine, I counted each breath he took, using them to remind my nervous system that he was still right there next to me.

“You know who doesn’t listen to music in the car?” Milo asked.

“Who?” I indulged him.

“Sociopaths.”

“Some of us actually like being able to hear ourselves think.” I smirked.

“It’s fucking weird.”

“You’re fucking weird.” I grinned, braking at a red light.

He didn’t respond, but I caught his reflection in the side mirror. That stupid smile plastered to his face warmed my blood, purpose flooding my veins. I loved making him happy.

Our late-night coffee spot was blissfully empty. The trip was nostalgic, from the cold night air to the heavy scent of coffee beans inside. There were countless late nights as teens where we’d go for walks to the nearest coffee shop, drunk off our asses with friends trailing behind us.

Milo lingered several feet back as I ordered, staring down at the tiles around his feet, drifting away again. My gut response was always to give him space, but I was finally learning where that led. I couldn’t afford to wait for him to come to me anymore.

I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him in, draping my arm over his shoulders without comment. He stiffened, then relaxed. I kept it low-pressure, with no expectations. I watched the menu board while we waited off to the side for our drinks, but my attention stayed on him, noting how completely he melted into me.

“You ate, right?” It came out accusatory.

Silence.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“You literally texted me that you were hungry a few hours ago.” I reminded myself that it was counterproductive to strangle him, my arm tightening slightly around his neck.

He shrugged free just as the employee slid the coffees across the counter, snatching them up with a wide grin.

“That doesn’t count as food.”

“Yes, it does.” He snickered, already heading for a booth.

I stayed behind and bought a donut before joining him in the corner next to the windows, sliding into the seat across from him and dropping the bag between us like an offering. He blinked, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face as he reached for it.

What a fucking liar.

He plucked the treat out of the bag and started eating.

The silence that followed wasn’t the comfortable kind. It was the kind Milo couldn’t tolerate, where his thoughts were too loud. I let it stretch, knowing his compulsion to fill the space would win out—and maybe, just maybe, he’d let me in.

“Did I tell you what happened?” He folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them, donut abandoned.

“No, but you don’t need to,” I said, fingers biting into my cup. “She wasn’t good enough anyway. Good riddance.”

“You always say that.” His gaze drifted. “But it’s always my fault.”

“Yeah, I don’t believe that.” I took a sip of my coffee too soon and burned my tongue, welcoming the sting.

I hadn’t seen much of Sofia, but I’d read the messages. Milo always came to me when he spiralled, unsure as to whether he was overreacting or justified. It was a mistake on his part, really. I’d never been keen on sharing my brother, and it bled out in ways I couldn’t control. My advice was always the same: leave them.

“I was too much again,” he said, ignoring me, lost to the spiral he was navigating. The self-blame in his voice echoed years back to bruises, excuses, and apologies he never once owed to anyone.

He framed it as a flaw, something that needed to be buried deep beneath the sand, but all I saw was love that burned hotter than anyone else could hold. Watching partner after partner fail him was a particularly cruel kind of torment. I wanted to tell him that I liked the way he loved, that if he’d been mine, I would’ve handled every insecure spiral, every temper flare, every night like this. He wasn’t too much.