Page 247 of What We Burn

His eyes open.

Not all at once.

First a flutter. Then a squint against the light. Then the slow, confused blink of a man trying to locate himself in time and space.

“Hey,” I whisper.

He focuses on me. It takes a second. Then his face twists before it settles. Tentative. Uncertain. Milo is never uncertain.

“Hey, kitten,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. Sandpaper and gravel and the ragged edges of a throat that screamed itself raw.

“How do you feel?” It comes out as a rasp of my own—my throat is twelve hours past a hand around it—and I watch him hear it. His eyes drop to my neck and stay there a beat too long.

“Like I was hit by a truck, digested by the truck, and then the truck reversed over me for good measure.” He swallows. “Was my mom here?”

“She was.”

He groans a little and swallows. “Did she drug me?”

“She did. Put a needle in your neck. Freaked us all the fuck out.”

“Okay. So that did happen.” He closes his eyes again. Opens them. “Did I scare you, kitten?”

The question is small. Careful. Loaded with every insecurity Milo keeps locked behind the comedy and the chaos—the fear that one day, the people who love him will see the version of him that crashes and can’t function, and decide it’s all too much.

I take his face in my hands. Both palms against his cheeks, fingers in his hair, foreheads almost touching.

“You could never scare me, Milo. Not ever.” I brush my thumb across his cheekbone. “But I was scared for you.”

He frowns.

“I didn’t know what to do or how to help you.” I swallow. “I’m glad Gloria came and knew what to do. And I’m glad you’re safe.”

“So you’re not afraid of me? Even after⁠—”

“Not ever.”

I kiss him. Gentle. No heat or urgency. Just my mouth on his, soft and slow, tasting the staleness of sleep and, underneath it, Milo. The man who puts trackers in boots and sings Queen while he cooks and wins stuffed penguins at carnivals and would burn the world to ash if it meant I’d be safe in the morning.

He kisses me back. Barely. The faintest pressure, his lips moving against mine like he’s relearning how. But it’s there.

It feels like a door opening.

Micah shifts behind Milo. His arm tightens around his waist and he leans forward, pressing his lips to Milo’s bare shoulder. A single, unhurried kiss, placed with deliberate care.

Milo’s eyes fly open.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m getting kisses from everyone.” He looks from me to Micah and back again, and something sparks behind the exhaustion—not the full Milo wattage, but a flicker. A pilot light reigniting. “In case either of you is wondering, my dick is down there.”

Micah laughs. Real and warm. He props himself up on one elbow and looks at Milo with the steady, fond gaze that makes people trust him with their worst moments.

“You know, we were worried we were going to lose you last night,” Micah says. “But if you’re well enough to make a dick joke, I’ll totally suck it for you.”

Milo stares at Micah. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. His brain obviously buffering—the loading wheel spinning behind his eyes as he tries to process whether this is a joke, a sincere offer, or some new category of human interaction that his operating system doesn’t have a folder for.

“I’m sorry,” Milo says slowly. “Did you just offer to⁠—”

“I did.”