Jordan
I trail Milán into the precinct. His shoulders are set, back ramrod straight, and with that grim expression on his face, I wouldn’t want to be the person standing in his way.
We stop at the front desk, where a harried-looking woman is trying to answer two calls at once. Her gaze jumps to Milán when he slams his palms on the counter and glares at her. She does not look amused.
I quickly push myself between Milán and her desk and put on my most amiable smile.
“Hello. We’re here for Rory Ellis?”
She glares some more and purses her lips before she pointedly goes back to her call.
“Oh, for fuck’s—” Milán starts to say, and I swiftly elbow him in the ribs before sending another smile to the police officer.
She rolls her eyes, swiftly covers the microphone of the phone. “ID?”
Milán pats down his pockets and produces his driver’s license.
And we wait.
A few minutes later an officer appears.
“Milán Corbin?” he says.
“That’s me,” Milán says at once.
“Follow me, please.”
Milán starts to move, then glances back at me.
“You should get out of here.” He sends me a weak smile. “While you still can.”
I eye him and bite down on the right side of my lower lip for a second, considering his words and contrasting them with his tense shoulders and worried expression, and I come to a snap decision.
“I’ll be here,” I say.
He closes his eyes for a moment, and after he opens them, he gives me a quick nod and then follows the officer inside the precinct.
I take a seat on one of the benches and settle in.
I jerk my head up when a pair of feet appear somewhere above where I’m scrolling on my phone.
Milán is standing in front of me, and I sit up straight and stuff my phone back into my pocket.
I raise my brows at him in question.
“They’re sending him out in a second. Paperwork took about forever.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Trespassing and vandalism.” He slumps heavily onto the bench, leans forward, elbows on knees, and rubs his hands over his face. “He broke into an abandoned building.”
With no idea how to be helpful, I just put my hand on his back and keep it there.
A few minutes later, the door opens and Rory walks through, accompanied by another officer.
Milán’s back straightens, and he gets up slowly.
Rory keeps eyeing the floor studiously.
I wait.
Milán blows out a breath, and then he’s in front of Rory. Milán looks like he’s going to give Rory a hug, but then something seems to stop him, and he just stands in front of Rory.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a low voice.
Rory hesitates for a bit, then nods once.
“Let’s get out of here,” Milán says.
Milán closes the apartment door behind him after Rory and I have both gotten inside. He’s been silent the whole way here, and Rory keeps sending him quick looks whenever he thinks Milán isn’t paying attention to him.
We all take off our shoes, and then we just stand in silence for a moment.
“Go put your things in your room,” Milán tells Rory.
He doesn’t argue, just goes.
The moment he’s out of earshot, Milán turns to me.
“What do I do now?” he whispers, the panic clear in his voice. I have a sudden urge to laugh.
He narrows his eyes. “Are you laughing?”
“No, no. Only a tiny, tiny bit,” I say in response to the look he sends me.
“Well, don’t. Just… tell me how to solve this.
What do I say? Am I supposed to punish him?
Like… ground him? That’s what people do, right?
Or take his phone away. No, I don’t think he’d care that much.
” He snaps his fingers. “His pencils. Or the journal. No. Shit. I can’t do that.
He’ll fucking hate me forever. But then I can’t just ignore what happened, can I?
So I should… What’s a good consequence for his actions?
Do I… do I tell him I’m disappointed in him?
When’s a good time to roll that one out?
Is that too much? Am I disappointed? Holy fucking shit!
” He drags his hands through his hair, and by now, his breathing is about four times as fast as normal.
I put my hands on his shoulders and step closer. His eyes widen.
“Breathe,” I say. “You won’t solve anything if you’re not able to approach this calmly.”
He lifts his gaze and meets mine. The hallway is quiet. My toes are against his toes. Our chests are almost touching.
I blink.
There’s a faint hum underneath my skin.
Milán shifts from one foot to the other, and I’m suddenly very aware that he’s even closer. Not by much, but enough that the air between us seems thinner.
He’s gone from hyperventilating to breathing slower and quieter. Still shallow, but not as much as before. I can tell because I can feel each exhale and inhale.
I can feel my pulse in my fingertips.
The sleeve of his T-shirt brushes over the skin of my forearm, and something changes in the air. Not sharp. Or sudden. Just a small tilt.
A faint acknowledgment in the back of my brain tells me I should step back. I don’t.
I feel him.
Still too close.
The moment stretches. Somehow awkward, but not painfully so.
It’s the silence. It’s too long. Too noticeable.
I scramble for something to say, anything to make the silence less obvious, but all I manage is a useless laugh that comes out unnatural and thin.
He looks at me. Not long, just a flick of his eyes, but it feels like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. My pulse pounds in my fingertips. And for what? We’re just standing. Just talking.
The sudden click of a door opening somewhere makes me jump back and blink in surprise.
“Rory,” Milán says quietly. If nothing else, at least he sounds calmer now.
I’m…
That was weird. Earlier. Weird. I’m not sure what made me react like that.
I take a slow, deep breath.
It was the proximity. I haven’t been that close to anybody in a while, so I just reacted to the unexpected situation. As pathetic as that might sound.
Milán smooths his palm over the top of his head and straightens his back. Rory slowly appears from around the corner. He’s dragging his feet and eyeing Milán from underneath a deeply furrowed brow.
“Living room,” Milán says. He sounds impressively composed compared to the freak-out of a few minutes ago.
Rory rolls his eyes but goes.
Milán takes a deep breath.
“Should I go?” I ask in a low voice.
He snaps his head toward me.
“Don’t you dare.”
I bite back a smile and follow him to the living room, where I lean against the wall and try to blend in with my surroundings, so I don’t make it seem like it’s two against one.
“Explain,” Milán says once he’s taken a seat opposite Rory.
Rory glares at the table. The silence is heavy between the two of them.
Milán’s eyes dart toward me for a moment before he looks back at Rory.
“Kid,” he says in a voice verging on gentle. It makes Rory look up. “You want to tell me what all of this was about?”
Rory chews on his words. I hold my breath.
“It was just an empty building.” The words seem to burst out while it also looks like they’re being dragged out. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Sure. Then again, you could’ve not done that anything in the park.” His voice is calm, not sharp or sardonic, but the question carries weight.
Rory’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything.
“It could’ve been dangerous,” Milán says in a low voice, leaning forward an inch. “You could’ve gotten seriously hurt. What if, I don’t know, the floor had collapsed? Nobody would’ve known where you were.”
Rory finally looks up. “Who cares?”
I think he means to come off as tough. Indifferent at the very least. He achieves neither. The tone is scared. Not of consequences. It’s scared about what the answer might be.
“I do!” The vehemence of these two words startles both Rory and, seemingly, Milán himself.
Milán blinks. They stare at each other.
“I do,” he says again. And nods.
I really shouldn’t be here, but I also can’t move.
Rory lifts his chin. “Why?”
He throws it at Milán like a challenge. He meets Rory’s gaze calmly.
“You’re one of us now,” he says.
Rory scoffs.
“You don’t believe me,” Milán says. “You will. One day.”
Rory stays very still. Very quiet. As if he’s afraid even the slightest movement will give him away. Like he’s trying to hide in plain sight. Like he’s hoping if he doesn’t move no one will notice what he’s feeling. He’s bracing for disappointment.
But then his fingers twitch, and he quickly crosses his arms and stuffs his hands into his armpits.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “Can we just wrap this up? Yell at me and let’s get this over with.”
“I’m not going to yell at you.”
Rory glares.
“Next thing you’ll tell me you’re not angry.”
“I’m not,” Milán says. “It won’t get us anywhere. All I want right now is to understand what really happened and what made you do it.”
Rory clamps his mouth shut. The silence that follows stretches on and on, neither of them willing to give in until Milán eventually sighs.
“Go to bed,” he tells Rory. “When Aiden comes home, we’ll have a family meeting and agree on what the consequences should be.”
One last glare and off he goes.
Milán slumps in his chair, tilts his face up to the ceiling, and closes his eyes.
I push off the wall and take a seat at the table.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much of a disaster was it?” Milán asks, eyes still closed.
“I think you handled it rather well, actually.”
He turns his head and looks at me, disbelief clear in his expression. He gets up and rounds the kitchen island to the cabinets.
“I feel like I need a stiff drink.” He rummages around for a bit. “And there’s nothing here.” He goes to the fridge, pulls the door opens, and has a look. “I guess we’ll eat our feelings instead. How do you feel about leftover pizza?”
I pretend to think about it for a bit. “Pro.”
He smiles for the first time in hours. “My kind of guy.”
It’s an off-handed comment. A lighthearted joke.
But the way those words stick in my brain gives them weight. They create a warm buzz in my chest. It’s a steady lightness that expands and unfurls and makes my skin hum.
I blink.