Chapter 9 #2
"Shut up, it was very formative. You were carrying them like they weighed nothing and your forearms were—anyway.
" He's blushing now, the pink spreading up from his collar.
"And the time you asked me if I'd eaten.
At Ava's, maybe a year ago, maybe longer.
You just handed me a plate and said, 'Eat something, Milo.
' I couldn't talk for about five seconds because no one had ever asked me that like they actually cared about the answer.
Everyone else just assumed I was fine, because I make sure I look fine. And you just... handed me a plate."
My thumb presses harder against the bite mark. He shivers.
"And the reason I downloaded KnotMe," he whispers. "It wasn't because Jude was bugging me about it. It was because I just... I needed to feel wanted by somebody. Even if it wasn't the right somebody. Because the right somebody was my best friend's brother, and I was never going to get to have him."
My hand grips the back of his neck. I pull him in, press my mouth to his hair, and hold him there. If I try to say anything right now, my voice is going to break, and a twenty-eight-year-old firefighter shouldn't sound like that in front of the omega he's trying to impress.
We were sitting across from each other at Ava's table the whole time. Him wanting me, me wanting him, and neither of us said a fucking word. All those Friday dinners and grocery runs and movie nights.
"We're idiots," I say into his hair.
"We're such idiots," he agrees. He's laughing, but it's watery. His hand is fisted in my shirt, his face pressed into my chest. I don't think I've ever been this happy and this furious at my own cowardice at the same time.
Part of me knows the cowardice is still there. Telling Ava is the last wall. But his hand is in my shirt and his scent is everywhere, and I can't make myself care about that wall right now. Not with him choosing to be here.
Later—the dishes done, the leftovers wrapped up, the Tupperware of cookies relocated to my fridge with a sticky note Milo wrote that says for the firehouse NOT for midnight snacking Callum—we're back on the couch.
Milo's tucked into the space between my arm and my body like he was engineered to fit there. His gaze drifts to the bedroom doorway.
"How's Gerald?" he asks, using the same fond tone he'd use for a friend he hasn't seen in a week.
"Gerald's doing great. I moved him closer to the window—he was getting leggy on the nightstand."
"You moved him without consulting me?" He sits up, mock-offended. The look on his face makes something crack open in my chest. He named a fern five days ago and now he has opinions about it.
"I cleared some space," I tell him, because the moment is right. I've been waiting for the right moment since Tuesday when I emptied the second dresser drawer. "In the dresser. If you want to keep some things here so you're not always carrying a bag."
He goes still. His eyes jump to mine, a flash of surprise. His hand grips my shirt again.
The weight of what I'm actually offering is more than a drawer. It's an invitation to leave pieces of himself here. To stop treating this apartment like somewhere he visits and start treating it like somewhere he belongs.
"Okay," he says. His voice is casual in a way that doesn't match his face at all. "Yeah. That would be—yeah. Okay."
The way his fingers tighten in my shirt tells me he knows exactly what this is. A tiny, dangerous-feeling step he's taking with both feet.
I pull him closer and press a kiss to the top of his head. I don't mention the toothbrush I already put in the bathroom cup. Some things you discover on your own.
Milo unfolds himself from the couch after a while and drifts to my bookshelf.
It's a small one against the wall near the window, jammed tight with paperbacks doubled up behind hardcovers and a couple of EMT textbooks.
He runs his finger along the spines the way he ran his finger along Gerald's leaf that first night, curious and careful.
He pulls one out to look at the cover. Two others slide into the gap, leaning against each other.
"You've read all of these?" he asks, turning the book over.
"Most of them. Some are aspirational."
He laughs and puts it back. The books shuffle around it.
The shelf is completely full. No room for anything else.
Milo has textbooks. I've seen him carry three of them in his bag.
He's going to want to study here because he's going to be here, and that shelf can't hold what's coming.
His psych textbook alone is the size of a cinder block. All of that needs a home here now.
I look at the empty wall next to the window.
About four feet of clear space, good light, the right height.
My phone is in my hand before I've even made a conscious decision about it.
I'm already thinking about dimensions and whether the hardware store on Third is open tomorrow.
Something sturdy enough for textbooks. Wide enough for his stuff and mine.
A shelf that says this is where your things live now, because this is where you live now.
"What's this one about?" Milo asks over his shoulder, holding up a battered paperback I read three years ago.
"Guy goes on a road trip," I say. "I think there's a dog."
"Sold." He tucks it under his arm like he's planning to borrow it, which he is, and turns back to the shelf.
My thumb types bookshelf into the search bar.
I look at Milo in my apartment—barefoot, reading my books, wearing a sweater that smells faintly of my shampoo, the bite mark a dark curve at his collar—and I think about shelf brackets, and whether the hardware store opens early enough for me to get there before my shift.