51. Milo
FIFTY-ONE
MILO
For approximately two seconds, my sleep-fogged brain supplies a pleasant montage of last night—Sage’s mouth, Sage’s sounds, Sage’s body arching beneath me as I plowed into her—and I smile into the pillow like an idiot.
Then I register that the arm around my waist is too heavy, the chest behind me is too broad, and the erection currently nestled against my left butt cheek belongs to someone who is decidedly not a five-foot-four waitress with glorious tits and freckles on her nose.
“Why, Holden,” I say, keeping my voice breathy and soft. “I had no idea you felt this way about me.”
The arm around my waist goes rigid.
“I’m flattered, truly. I mean, I always kind of thought there was a vibe between us, but I didn’t want to make it weird because of the whole murder-buddies thing—”
Holden is awake. I know this because his hand clamps over my mouth, and his voice comes out in a low, murderous rasp directly behind my ear.
“If you finish that sentence, I will end you.”
I lick his palm.
He yanks his hand back with a disgusted sound and shoves me so hard I nearly roll off the bed.
I catch myself on the edge, cackling, and twist around to face him.
Holden is sitting up now, jaw clenched, yanking his jeans on.
His hair is wrecked. There’s a crease on his cheek from the pillowcase.
He looks like an angry Calvin Klein model who just woke up in the wrong photoshoot.
“Relax, big guy. Morning wood is a perfectly natural physiological response. Happens to the best of us. Well, not me. Mine’s always intentional.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“You keep saying that and yet here I am. Alive. Thriving. Freshly spooned.” I stretch, vertebrae popping like bubble wrap, and grin at him.
“Also, for the record—I’m not into dudes.
So your virtue will remain intact. But if you ever did want to explore that whole situation, I might consider it.
Simply because you’re hot and I like your tattoos.
But I also think you and Micah would be really great together.
He’s very gentle. Very patient. He’s got those soft hands. ”
Holden finishes buttoning his jeans and stares at me like I just suggested he eat glass.
“Wait. Eli might not like you moving in on Micah—even though they’re currently in an ‘off’ period.
Dude. Don’t even get me started on those two.
The will-they-won’t-they is killing me. They’ve been there, they keep going back, and nobody will just commit to the bit.
I have feelings about it. I’ve considered staging an intervention.
I ship those two hard but they just keep dancing around it. ”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“So many things. We’d be here all day.” I swing my legs off the bed. “But seriously, this is a safe space. I support all configurations. You, Micah, Eli—honestly, any combination involving Micah, because that man deserves love and I will fight anyone who—”
“Milo. Where is Sage?”
Right. Sage. I look at the empty space between us where she should be. No Sage.
“She probably got up for water or something. Chill. We could snuggle some more if that’ll make you feel better.”
Holden does not chill. And he doesn’t take me up on that snuggle. I’m pretty sure Holden came out of the womb doing a perimeter sweep. He’s already up, tugging on his shirt with the efficient, joyless movements of a man who treats getting dressed like a tactical operation.
I follow him out to the living room in my boxers, scratching my stomach, and we both stop in the doorway.
Sage is on the couch. Curled up sideways in Knox’s lap like a kitten who found the warmest spot in the house and claimed it.
Her head is tucked under his chin, one hand fisted loosely in his shirt.
Knox’s arms are around her—one across her back, one cradling her head—and he’s asleep.
Actually asleep. Eyes closed, breathing deep, jaw slack. Maybe a little drool.
I have never seen Knox asleep before. I didn’t know he could. I assumed he just stood in a corner and powered down like a robot until someone said the activation word, which is probably something like “threat” or “noose” or “Sage is in danger.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, grabbing Holden’s arm. “Look at them. Look at that. That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I need to take a photo. Where’s my phone? I’m going to frame it and put it on the fridge—”
“Get off me.”
I let go of his arm. But I’m still looking at the couch, and honestly, my heart is doing a thing right now.
A big, stupid, warm thing. Knox doesn’t let people close.
Knox doesn’t touch people. Knox doesn’t fall asleep in the presence of other humans because Knox doesn’t trust the world enough to close his eyes.
And here he is, dead to the world, with our girl curled up in his lap like she belongs there.
Because she does. She belongs with all of us.
I glance at Holden and catch it—the micro-expression before he irons it out. Something tight and unhappy.
“Hey.” I nudge him. “You okay?”
He works his jaw. “I wanted to wake up with her.”
“I know, man. But look at it this way—she fell asleep between us. She chose us to share her bed. Knox was on surveillance last night. So she probably stumbled into him when she got up to pee. It’s not like she did the walk of shame and regret.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because you look like you’re having a feeling and it’s making you angry.”
He exhales hard through his nose. “She’s not mine. She’s ours. I know that. I want that. I just need to get used to wanting her and not being the only one she reaches for.”
My chest does something inconvenient.
“Yeah,” I say, softer than usual. “That’s kind of the whole terrifying deal.” I clap him on the back. “Welcome to the polycule.”
“Never call it that again.”
“Throuple? Love pentagon? Sage’s harem of emotionally damaged murder boys?”
“I’m leaving. Tell Sage I’ll see her later.”
“No. You’re not leaving just yet. I’m making breakfast. All sleepovers must end with a hearty meal.”
I head into the kitchen and survey the situation. It’s still a little messy from last night, so I make quick work of getting rid of the leftovers and bagging up the trash while Holden puts a pot of coffee on.
Sage’s kitchen is small but functional—clean counters, gas stove, slightly dented fridge. The Kiss the Cook apron is hanging by the fridge, so obviously I put it on.
Then I’m in the fridge. Eggs. Bacon. Bread for toast. Milk for coffee. Breakfast infrastructure. My love language, but with more cholesterol.
I crack eggs and start whisking. This is what I do. Some people deal with complicated emotions through therapy or meditation or journaling. I deal with them by feeding people. It’s basically the same thing except calories instead of catharsis. Milo’s love language: acts of food prep.
The sizzle of bacon is what wakes them. I hear Knox’s low rumble from the living room, Sage’s sleepy murmur, the soft sounds of untangling. A moment later, Sage shuffles into the kitchen.
She’s wrecked in that soft, post-sex, barely-awake way—hair going six directions, pressure mark on her cheek from Knox’s chest, eyes at maybe twenty percent capacity. She’s wearing the big T-shirt from last night like a dress and blinking at us like her body is still loading.
She looks like a baby woodland creature that hasn’t figured out how legs work yet. She’s perfect. I want to keep her forever.
“Morning, kitten.” I brandish the spatula. “Eggs?”
She makes a sound that is not a word. Not even close to a word. It’s the sound a cat makes when you pick it up and it’s not ready. She shuffles to the counter and plants herself on a stool, folding her arms and putting her head down like a kid at a school desk whose parents don’t enforce bedtime.
Knox follows her in, already looking fully operational—composed, alert, upright. The man went from dead asleep to mission-ready in under thirty seconds. It’s honestly unsettling. Like watching a phone go from zero to a hundred percent in the time it takes to blink.
“Morning, wildcat.” Holden makes a straight line for Sage.
He cups her face, tilts her head up, and kisses her.
Slow. Thorough. The kind of good-morning kiss that’s also a statement, a claim, and a little bit of a territorial flag-planting in front of the room.
When he pulls back, Sage blinks up at him like she forgot what planet she’s on. “Missed you in bed this morning.”
Sage mumbles something into Holden’s chest and wraps both arms around his middle, holding him in a death grip.
He kisses the top of her head and pets her hair, and for a second the world is soft-focus and very, very small.
Just us. Just this kitchen and the smell of bacon and the stripe of sunlight catching the dust in the air.
“Coffee, kitten?” I ask, handing Holden his coffee as they break apart.
“She can have mine.” He takes a mouthful, then hands it to Sage, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ve gotta go. Expected at the station—Davis’s parents are still making noise, and I need to keep the paperwork pointed away from us.”
“What? No,” Sage groans, cradling the coffee with both hands.
“I know. I’d rather stay too.” He leans down and kisses Sage again, quicker this time, hand on the back of her neck. “But I’ll call you. Promise.”
She nods, still half-asleep, dopey smile in place.
He heads for the door. I lean over the counter.
“What about my goodbye kiss?”
Holden stops. Turns. Gives me a look that could kill a lesser man. I am not a lesser man. I am unkillable. I am cockroach energy in human form.
“Just a little one? On the forehead? I’ll close my eyes and everything—”
The door shuts behind him.
“He wants to kiss me,” I tell Sage as she grins into her coffee mug. “He’s just not ready. I respect his journey.”
From the doorframe, Knox makes a sound. It might be a laugh. It might be gas. With Knox, you never know. But I’m counting it.