Page 92 of What We Become

I’ve found that agreeing with Milo mid-tirade is the only reliable way to stop one. He builds his arguments expecting resistance. Take the resistance away and he’s left holding a speech with nowhere to put it.

“But I’m also serious.” My thumb moves once over his knuckles. “You were folded up and gone somewhere I couldn’t follow, and I crouched on the floor next to you and realized there wasn’t a version of my life anymore where I didn’t want you in it.”

His eyes shine. He looks away fast, at Frank, at the monitor, at the pill bottles—anywhere that isn’t me.

“For the record,” he says, thick-voiced, “you’re supposed to be the emotionally constipated one. This role reversal is deeply upsetting, and I’d like to speak to the manager.”

“I am the manager.”

“That tracks. That’s very on-brand for you.”

He picks up the bottles, and I wonder if he’s going to pocket them or pitch them, and then he sets them deliberately in the center of the table, labels facing out, like evidence entered into the record.

“These are going to stay visible,” he says. “Not hidden in a cabinet. And definitely not crushed in my food. They go right there, where everybody can see them. So if I ever actually need one, it’s my hand that reaches for it. Transparency. It’s my new kink. Very niche. There’s no subreddit.”

“You’ve given up on the masked stalker already?”

Milo looks at the book still waiting on the counter. “Oh, God no. I intend to finish that book cover to cover and take notes. There might be diagrams.”

“There aren’t diagrams in romance novels.”

“Obviously—but there should be. I’ll be the one making diagrams.” He yawns, huge and unguarded, the kind that cracks his jaw. It surprises him more than it surprises me. “Huh. That’s new. Apparently confessing patricide is excellent for sleep hygiene. Somebody tell the wellness industry.”

“Then we’re going to bed,” I say. “Knox is on watch next. I can already hear him moving this way.”

Knox materializes at the bottom of the stairs. He takes in the scene in one pass—the pill bottles centered on the table, Milo’s wrecked face, my hand still wrapped around his.

“Everything good?” he asks.

“I killed my dad,” Milo says.

Knox doesn’t blink. He comes the rest of the way down, boots silent on the wood, and stops at the end of the table. His eyes move over Milo’s face.

“He earn it?”

Milo laughs—wet, startled. “Extremely.”

“Good.” Knox puts one hand on the back of Milo’s neck, the way he does with Sage, and holds it there. Milo’s shoulders drop two inches.

“You know,” Milo says to the table, “when I pictured telling people about this, there was more screaming. Some fainting. A dramatic exit, minimum.”

“You want screaming?” Knox asks.

“No, this is great, this is exactly my speed⁠—”

Knox pulls him in. One-armed, against his chest, Milo’s face disappearing somewhere around his collarbone. Milo goes rigid for half a second, then folds. His hand comes up and fists in the back of Knox’s shirt.

“Can’t breathe,” he mumbles. “Death by pectoral. Tell the group chat I died doing what I loved.”

“He says that every time,” Knox tells me, rolling his eyes.

“It’s true every time.”

Knox lets him go and takes my chair like we’re changing shifts at a precinct, because we are. He drags my cold coffee toward himself, frowns at it, and starts scanning the monitor feeds without being asked. Handoff complete.

“Wait,” Milo says from the stairs. He darts back, grabs the stalker rom-com off the counter, and hugs it to his chest like a teddy bear with felony charges. “Okay. Now I’m ready for bed.”

Upstairs, he lasts exactly as long as it takes to brush his teeth and narrate, in exhaustive detail, the hidden-camera diagram he intends to draw once the book gives him enough material. Then he’s horizontal, curled into my side, still talking.