Chapter 03 MILOS
“Ready?“
Sadie asks as the first clicks from her Nikon start firing. “I just need a couple of shots like this first, with the blindfolds, okay? You’re doing great! Could you, if you want to, lean a bit more against one another?”
We shift, careful at first, until the warm back of this stranger settles fully against mine. The curve of his ass sits just above mine—my blind date’s taller than me, big surprise there—and my heart bounces just a fraction too fast at the sudden closeness. Even through layers of fabric, I can feel the heat of him, solid and real, ramping my nerves up in a way I didn’t expect.
God, this is so weird.
Standing half-frozen against a stranger in the middle of the NDSM, blindfolded, snow drifting down, while a photographer circles us like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Oh, perfect. Just like that!“
More clicking, Sadie shifts angles, boots crunching in the snow. “Maybe… hold hands? Is that okay?”
A soft, amused chuckle from behind me is all the answer tall dude gives before a miraculously warm palm slides into my cold one, fingers slipping easily between my own.
His hand feels broad, firm, a little callused, like he’s used to working with his hands. Not office-soft. Not delicate. Solid.
Which, apparently, is an instant turn-on for me, if the quick flash of heat curling low in my stomach is any sign.
Jesus.
I swallow, tightening my grip just slightly before I even realize I’m doing it, suddenly hyper-aware of every point where we touch—shoulder blades, hips, hands.
Yeah. This shoot is gonna be the death of me.
My throat thickens when his rough thumb slides once, then a second time, across my pointer finger, slow and almost absentminded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
And I don’t know if it’s the darkness, the nervous anticipation, or the fact that I’ve apparently been touch-starved for way longer than I thought, but that small glide sends shivers running through me that have nothing to do with the damn cold.
“Beautiful,“
Sadie murmurs somewhere in front of us, camera clicking again, and I swear I hear a tiny, poorly contained squeal behind her that can only belong to my sister.
Of course she’s enjoying this, traitor. Just what I need, Nika witnessing my accidental flirtation with a complete stranger. A stranger I haven’t even fucking seen yet. A stranger who’s already pulling more excitement out of me than I’ve felt in months.
If this stupid idea of hers actually works out?
If I end up liking him?
I’ll never hear the end of this.
“You’re both doing perfect,“
Sadie continues. “You can remove the blindfolds now, turn after. And please forget that I’m here for the next part, okay? Just do whatever feels good for you. Talk, don’t talk. Touch. Just let the moment take you and see what happens naturally.”
Naturally. Right.
Not a lot of things come naturally to me. My neon art? Sure. That’s instinct. My love for my sister? Always. Riding my bike? Hell yes. That’s muscle memory, speed and throttle and trust. But dating? Opening myself up to new people? Letting someone close enough to see the messy parts?
That’s hard.
That’s standing on the edge of something and not knowing if I'm about to fly or wipe out.
I take a deep breath and remember Nika’s words from earlier.
Take a little leap, Milos.
She said it like it was simple. Like I’m not built entirely out of overthinking and defense mechanisms.
But shit… Fuck it, right?
Cold air burns my lungs as I reach up and pull the blindfold off, tucking it into my back pocket. The world explodes back into light. Snow reflects off every surface, the sky a pale wash of winter glare, the mural behind us blazing in impossible color against all that white.
My eyes need a second to adjust. My pulse needs one too.
I roll my shoulders back, brace myself, and turn to face my stranger.
And the first thing I notice—the thing I can’t tear my gaze away from—are his eyes.
Blue.
Not soft blue. Not pale. But vivid, deep, almost unreal, framed by the thickest dark lashes I’ve ever seen on a man. A familiar blue.
For a second, my brain just… stalls as I nearly choke on my breath.
I know those eyes.
I’ve seen those eyes before.
Something ticks in the corner of my mind, some half-formed memory trying to surface, but I can’t quite place it. Like recognizing a song without remembering where you heard it.
What I can place, however, is that he’s by far one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen in my life.
And I swear I lose the fucking ability to speak, just standing there staring at him, taking everything in. The pretty as fuck eyes, the warm light-brown complexion, the thin nose ring catching the winter light, full lips that seem permanently stuck in the hint of a smile, and that unruly mop of dark curls that looks like it never quite does what it’s told.
And the tats… Shit, those tats.
I’m too busy following the branches on his neck—what looks like an olive tree, dark and twisted, wrapping just below his jaw—to even pretend I’m not staring. The ink curves along his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of his black shirt, roots sinking into skin like they’ve always belonged there.
It’s not random. Not decorative.
It means something. The artist in me recognizes that much.
Then there’s that chuckle again, soft and warm, and something in my chest does an unexpected little flip in response.
Oh, Jesus.
I’m way more touch-deprived than I thought if standing this close to a good-looking stranger, sharing a laugh and a little accidental intimacy, is enough to scramble my entire brain.
I really need to get out more.
“Hi,“
he says softly, his voice a low, deep rumble.
“Hi,“
I breathe back, too fucking stunned to think properly.
Fuck. So, so lame.
For a second we just stand there, snow settling in his dark hair, the mural blazing behind him like some dramatic backdrop that Sadie, if she’s even half the artist I believe she is, absolutely planned for.
And she did, if the insistent clicking is any indication.
He’s tall, broad. Not bulky… just solid, and a faint dusting of snow clings to those defined shoulders, to his curls, slowly melting. One stubborn flake catches right above his eyebrow.
Without really thinking about it, I lift my hand, stepping closer before my brain can catch up and stop me.
My fingers brush above his eyebrow—his skin is soft, warmer than I expected—and I flick the snow away.
The contact lasts maybe a second, but his breath hitches.
Not dramatically. Just enough for me to notice.
And the shiver that rolls through him? That definitely has nothing to do with winter.
Oh.
Oh.
“I’m Kaiden, or Kai,“
he says, voice another fraction lower.
Kai.
The name settles somewhere under my ribs.
“Milos,“
I reply in a croak that’s very much not like me.
Our hands somehow find one another again, fingers barely brushing now instead of intertwined, and I suddenly become very aware of every single inch between us.
The space.
The heat despite that it’s still fucking snowing.
The fact that I don’t move back.
There’s something about him that feels… familiar. Not in an I’ve-met-you-before kind of way, but in an I-recognize-you kind of way.
Like he’s looking at me the same way I’m looking at him.
Careful.
Curious.
A little bit wrecked already.
Behind us, Sadie’s camera clicks again, softer now. Almost respectful.
And for a suspended, fragile second, the snow keeps falling, the river and the city feel far away, and it’s just us standing there, breathing the same cold air, close enough that our breath almost mingles between us.
I swallow, dig around somewhere deep in my chest until I find my courage—take a little leap, Milos—and take it.
“So,“
I manage, because shit, words are still expected of me. “Do you always let strangers blindfold you in the snow?”
There. A small smile. Teasing.
Safer to focus on that than admitting my pulse still hasn’t calmed down since he slid his hand into mine.
His gaze drops, and instead of answering right away, he taps the toe of my boot with his.
“Do you always ruin your biker boots by wandering around in said snow?“
he counters. “Those soles are gonna hate you when you need them to hold steady at a red light.”
And I actually fucking laugh—loud and unfiltered, the sound ripping out of me in something that feels suspiciously like relief.
He’s a biker.
Of course he is.
If I believed in any of that, I’d say the stars aligned or some stupid shit like that.
He squints at me, that curl still playing around his lips, before nudging my shoulder with his in an easy, familiar way, like we’ve known each other longer than five minutes, those wicked fingers brushing the back of my hand again.
“Tell me you at least ride something decent,“
he says, his smile fully breaking out now, revealing an amazing pair of dimples in his light scruff. “Don’t break my heart and say you’re on some sad little beginner’s bike.”
My grin stretches so wide my cheeks start to hurt.
“Dude,“
I shoot back, “She’s an R6, show some respect.”
His eyebrows lift and he cocks his head, assessing, the clicking of the camera still going on, that hand still on mine. “Yamaha, huh? Same.”
I can’t help but bite my lip. “Really? You have an R6 as well?”
He presses his lips together in a suppressed smile as he shakes his head. And I already know what he’s going to say before it even comes out—simple and casual, like it’s no big deal.
“Ah, no. R1, actually.”
Woah.
I must have actual stars in my eyes or something because fuckkk, that is a big deal, and my stomach does a small, traitorous flip. I have to physically keep myself from bouncing on the balls of my feet like some overexcited idiot. “Oh shit, that’s awesome. Can I see it? We should totally go for a ride after this stupid shoot.”
The words tumble out before I consciously think them through, and my cheeks heat instantly.
Shit. Cue the fucking awkwardness.
I want to backtrack. Laugh it off. Pretend I meant it in a totally platonic, biker-bro way, duh. But before I can open my stupid mouth again, he actually fucking nods.
“Sure.“
His blue eyes shine with excitement. Real excitement. In interest. “Yeah, we should.”
There’s no hesitation. No polite ‘maybe’. Just an instant yes.
And just like that, the tension shifts and I relax, the nerves as good as gone. I feel lighter. The conversation flows easily, slipping into talk about engines, torque, favorite stretches of road, like we’ve done this before.
Take a little leap, Milos.
Yeah… I think I just did.