Page 272 of What We Burn

Downstairs there’s a TV and a man on a couch and no work. There hasn’t been work in eight days. I keep reaching for the box where I put the mission and finding the lid already down.

Right on cue, the knock comes. Loud. Theatrical. A full percussion sequence that could only belong to one person.

“It’s been six and a half minutes,” Milo announces through the door. “I’m respecting the boundary, but I need you to know it’s costing me emotionally.”

Micah drops his head to my chest and laughs. “Come in, Milo.”

The door opens. Milo appears holding a tray—two electrolyte drinks, a stack of wet wipes, fresh towels, and what appears to be a plate of toast cut into triangles.

“Postcoital care package,” he says, setting the tray on the dresser. “Electrolytes, because dehydration is the enemy. Towels, because I respect your sheets even if you don’t. Toast, because carbs are required when you’ve just had your brains fucked out.” He surveys us—tangled, wrecked, the bed a disaster zone. “You both look terrible. Like, thoroughly destroyed. Ten out of ten.”

“Thank you, Milo,” Micah says.

“You’re welcome.” He leans against the door frame. There’s a beat where I watch his face for any trace of hurt—the sting of being left downstairs, the complicated mess of wanting something and watching it go to someone else. If there’s any hurt there, Milo has buried it beneath a full-wattage grin bright enough to power a small city.

“For the record,” he says, “I could hear everything. And I have notes.”

“Absolutely not,” I say.

He pulls out his phone and checks the screen. “First note: the headboard. Guys. Invest in a wall mount. The knocking is atmospheric, but the drywall is going to need patching.”

“Milo.”

“Second note: Micah, your vocal range is genuinely impressive. I didn’t know you could hit that register. Have you considered a cappella?”

Micah throws a pillow at him. Milo catches it, hugs it to his chest, and keeps going.

“Third and final note.” His voice softens a fraction. Just enough that both of us hear the shift underneath the comedy. “I’m glad. Genuinely. Because . . .” He gestures between us. “This. Whatever wall came down in here. It needed to come down. And I’m glad I got to be the idiot who accidentally knocked it over by asking about a blow job.”

The room gets quiet. Not awkward. Warm.

“You’re not an idiot,” Micah says.

“I’m frequently an idiot. But sometimes my idiocy serves a higher purpose.” He straightens up. “Now. I’ve eaten all the gummy bears, rejected three structurally irresponsible platform designs, and developed a comprehensive theory about why that renovation show uses so much shiplap. So whenever you two are done being disgustingly in love, I’ll be downstairs. With no one to hold me because everyone is out right now.”

Micah sits up. “Milo. Come here.”

“I’m not getting in that bed. I know what’s on those sheets.”

“Get over here.”

Milo rolls his eyes but crosses the room. Micah grabs his wrist and pulls him down onto the mattress. Milo yelps, flails, and ends up wedged between us in a tangle of limbs.

“This is unsanitary,” Milo says. “I want you both to know that.”

“Shut up,” I say, putting my arm over both of them—Micah on one side, Milo on the other—and for a few minutes nobody talks. We just lie there in the afternoon light, three men on a wrecked bed, breathing the same air and letting the silence be enough.

Milo’s phone buzzes. He checks it without moving his head off Micah’s shoulder.

“Sage says she and Holden are stopping at the store on their way home. She wants to know if we need anything.” He pauses. Grins. “Can I be the one who tells her you two are in love now?”

“Tell her we need milk,” I say.

“I’m telling her about the passion and the tears and the declarations of forever.”

“Milo.”

“Already sent. She’s typing. There are a lot of emojis happening. I see a fire, a peach, and what I think is a—yep, that’s an eggplant and a bunch of water drops and fireworks. Classic Sage.”