Beast (Legends)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

MILO

I awoke before he did.

Ethan’s arm was heavy across my waist, his breath drifting against the back of my shoulder in slow, even exhales.

The heat kicked on in a low, steady hum, banishing the early-March chill that crept through the edges of my high-rise windows.

Outside, Chicago was still bathed in the gloomy, colorless light before sunrise properly committed — nothing but a flat wash of gray pressing against the glass.

For a minute, I just lay there, staring at the faint reflection of us in the window — two bodies tangled in rumpled white sheets. Ethan’s leg was thrown over mine. His fingers flexed absently at my hip like he was making sure I was still there. It was a subtle, possessive move, even in sleep.

He was twenty-six. I’d learned that much somewhere between his second beer and the easy way he laughed at something I said at the bar.

His muscles were long and lean, accentuating his runner’s build.

Clean lines, dark hair clipped short at the sides, longer on top.

He’d smelled faintly of cedar cologne and whatever citrus they used to wipe down the bar at Halsted’s.

When he smiled, his left cheek dimpled before the right.

He’d caught my attention first, his hazel eyes gleaming under the light.

Technically, we’d met on Grindr three months ago.

Technically, I didn’t repeat.

That was the rule.

But Ethan had messaged me a week after the first hookup, something low-effort and disarming — Still not looking for anything serious?

I’d sent back a thumbs-up and a location pin.

We’d kept it easy: sometimes a drink, usually texts that didn’t demand anything, and nights that always ended before dawn.

Last night was an accident. Well, as accidental as spotting each other at a bar can be when you both know exactly how it ended.

He shifted, arm tightening around my midriff. Dark lashes tickled my shoulder, and he lifted his head. “You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah.”

He propped himself onto one elbow, the sheet sliding down his chest to reveal the faint red circle on his collarbone left behind by my teeth. He touched the bruise absently, then looked at me, his eyes searching. “You always wake up this early?”

“Most days.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Military dad?”

“Corporate,” I said, my own lips twitching.

He chuckled and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. For a few seconds, we just lay there, listening to the low hum of the heating and the distant wail of a siren.

Then he exhaled, a single, breathless word that pulled my attention to him. “Milo.”

“Yeah?”

His gaze dropped, his fingers tracing slow, absent lines along the sheet between us “I don’t know if you actually care.”

The words landed quietly, almost like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud.

I turned my head toward him. “What makes you say that?”

He swallowed, then pushed himself upright, dragging the sheet with him. He snatched his boxers from the floor, twisting the fabric in his hands.

“I mean…” He shrugged. “You’re here. You’re present. You laugh at my jokes. You remember how I take my whiskey.” He glanced at me. “But it’s like there’s a door you never open.”

I laid on my back, one arm curled behind my head, watching him. The morning light caught the curve of his shoulder, the tension sitting there now.

“I told you I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” I said evenly.

“I know.” His jaw flexed. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He rotated to look at me fully, a small crease settling between his brows.

“I’m saying,” he began carefully, “that the first time we met, you told me it was a one-time thing.”

I didn’t interrupt.

“You were clear. No expectations. No follow-ups. Fine.” He shrugged, but it seemed like anything but “fine.” “Except we ran into each other again, and I know it was just luck but….” He sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “But it doesn’t seem like just a one-time thing anymore, Milo.”

He let that sit there before he continued.

“We don’t just hook up and go our separate ways. We get drinks. You’ve met my friends — briefly, but still. You remember my sister’s dog’s name.” His mouth quirked into a grin. “You asked about my job interview.”

I held his gaze.

“So, yeah,” he went on, quieter now. “I guess I thought that meant something. That maybe I was starting to matter to you.”

There isn’t a version of this where I don’t come out the bad guy.

Ethan’s chest heaved with a heavy breath. “I guess your silence answers that. I could walk out right now and you’d just…” He snapped his fingers. “Move on.”

“I wouldn’t forget you,” I murmured. “That’s not how I work.”

“Then how do you work?”

His tone was firm, yet more curious than angry.

I pushed myself upright, the sheet slipping to my hips before I caught it again. “I don’t plan ahead with people,” I explained. “I keep things where they are. It’s easier that way.”

I’d given that explanation before. This time, it rang a little hollow.

He watched me, something tightening in his expression. “That’s the problem,” he said. “You let things build, but you never call it anything.”

I frowned. “I didn’t think I was.”

“You did.” He wasn’t harsh, yet certain—decided. “Maybe not on purpose, but yeah, you did.”

He swung his legs off the bed and pulled on his boxers.

“I don’t promise things I’m not sure I can keep,” I called after him. I’d learned early not to expect things to last longer than necessary.

Ethan shimmied into his jeans. “I’m not asking for promises.” He fastened his belt, locking eyes with me as he did. “I’m asking if what we’ve been doing could ever turn into something more.”

I didn’t answer right away, because I could see now, how it looked from his side—how the drinks, the time, the small things had added up to something I’d never intended.

I just hadn’t stopped it.

Ethan slipped on his shirt, smoothing the fabric over his torso. “I stupidly thought this wasn’t temporary,” he said. “That’s on me.”

“I never told you it was anything else,” I whispered, handing his watch to him.

“No, you didn’t.”

A heavy silence settled between us.

“You don’t let anyone get close enough to hurt you,” he said finally.

I could have argued that. “I don’t keep people in something I know won’t last. That’s not fair to them.”

“That’s not about me.” His voice was softer now. “That’s about you.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“I just thought we were heading somewhere.” His voice was nearly inaudible.

“I like you,” I added. “I care about you, but I’m not committing to something I can’t maintain.”

I didn’t build things that stretched too far ahead.

I’d learned early not to.

“So it’s not going to be more.”

“It’s not.”

He nodded once, taking everything in. “Okay.” He brushed a quick, tender kiss across my cheek, then vanished from sight.

A few minutes later, the apartment door clicked shut.

I stayed frozen where I was, staring at the dent he’d left in the mattress.

I’d done exactly what I’d always done.

So why did it feel different this time?