Rowan
New York Fashion Week is just as exhausting as I remember.
It’s loud, chaotic, and with barely any personal space. It isn’t hard to spot the first-timers with their gleaming eyes, or the influencers with their phones recording their entire experience like it’s the show of the century.
Then there are the celebrity guests, like the one I’m here for tonight. Milo is currently on the red carpet, posing for the cameras. The suit he’s wearing is a stark contrast to the gray hoodies and sweatpants he’s donned these past few days, but it looks good on him.
Really good.
Whatever adjustments the designers did had the suit stretching over his body in all the right places. It fits him like a really expensive glove.
The outfit isn’t the only thing that’s shining tonight.
Linda is a magician at her craft because she has transformed Milo into America’s heartthrob in just a few hours. Milo is already handsome without the help of makeup and professional hairstyling, but he’s absolutely sparkling tonight.
Not in the cringy vampire way, but like he’s glowing from the inside out, and the cameras are eating it up. The paps and photographers are all calling his name, vying for a single glance from him.
There are sounds of satisfaction at each smile Milo shoots their way. The constant shuttering of cameras going off is the real-life depiction of my fluttering heart when Milo beams my way.
He’s not smiling at you, idiot!
The thought doesn’t calm my pulse that’s been constantly rising since Milo told me he’s gay. It’s a dangerous fact that I never should have heard.
It’s one thing to think your charge is hot, and another thing entirely to open the floodgates of possibility when your crush bats for your team.
Not that I have a crush on Milo.
I’m a professional, dammit.
I don’t have inappropriate thoughts about people I’m in charge of.
I’m talking about all the other bisexual bodyguards who are protecting America’s darling.
Milo finally finishes his red-carpet moment and makes his way over to the wall that I’m keeping company.
“There’s still a while before the show starts. Do you want anything to eat? I saw some really appetizing pretzel thingies earlier. I can’t have any right now, but I can totally snatch some for you. It’ll be like eating vicariously through you,” he says with bright eyes.
With the way he’s already glowing, he’s almost too blinding to look at. I clear my throat and stare past him, surveying the scene as I should be.
“No, thanks. That would be inappropriate. I’m working,” I say sternly. My back is ramrod straight, and my hands are clasped against my lower back. I’m the picture of a model bodyguard with no illicit thoughts whatsoever.
“What’s so inappropriate about it? The food’s meant to be eaten, and we all know most of the people here aren’t going to be touching it. Wouldn’t it be even more inappropriate to let it all go to waste?”
Milo’s grinning smile is bright, but not artificially so, like when he played it up for the cameras. I’m glad to see him back to being the playful man I’ve gotten to know these past few days, and the uneasy silence from earlier has completely disappeared.
A man joins us by the wall, and I’m saved from having to give Milo a reply or face the reality that my answer wouldn’t have aligned with my professionalism.
“There you are, Milo. I’ve been searching all over for you,” the man says and reaches to Milo for a hug.
I watch Milo’s physical reaction, and seeing that he’s calm, I stay put as Tate wraps his arms around Milo. The action is a quick greeting before the men pull back.
Tate was in Milo’s file since he was also a member of MYTHS. The dossier didn’t contain information regarding Milo’s current relationship with his former bandmate—like whether they’re on good terms—but based on his currently relaxed shoulders, they at least get along.
The only thing I hate seeing is the way Milo now seems more muted. He’s not wearing his camera-ready persona, but he’s not relaxed like he is when he’s completely comfortable either.
It makes me wonder why, if they didn’t have a horrible falling out, they’re not closer? They were constantly together for five years while a part of MYTHS, so why does it look like Milo has put up a wall between them?
“Have you heard from Sully recently?” Tate asks without even glancing my way, just as I prefer.
I’m used to blending into the wall and being overlooked as part of the staff by those who hire us. It makes it easy to catch on to those with bad intentions. It also makes for great information gathering without even trying.
“Sully? Not since we made dinner plans. Are you unable to get in touch with him?”
Tate nods. “I know he lives in the middle-of-fuck nowhere, but he’s never gone off-grid like this before. I’m worried something happened.”
Tate’s voice goes low at the final sentence. Milo’s expression grows concerned, too, and I wonder if there’s something more to this than another bandmate not replying.
This seems like a conversation that shouldn’t be overheard. Thankfully, despite the venue being overcrowded with zealous fans, nobody is near our little corner of this wall.
“Have you asked Harvey and Yury if they’ve heard from him?” Milo continues to ask.
“Harvey says he hasn’t, and you know how Yury is. I’m surprised he even replied about the dinner get-together next week.” Tate shrugs, then his shoulders deflate.
Milo gives him a comforting pat. “I’ll give him a call tonight and try to get a hold of him. Don’t worry just yet, okay?”
Tate nods, but a paparazzi interrupts, clamoring for a photo of the two of them together. Milo’s and Tate’s expressions instantly turn camera-ready as they move to a more photogenic spot to pose for the camera.
The one photo somehow calls over a horde of photographers who scramble to capture them as well.
I hear one of them ask if MYTHS ever plans on getting back together.
The question goes unanswered, and Milo and Tate are stuck posing for a good five minutes before Ray pushes through the crowd and herds Milo to the next location.
Tate uses this chance to escape somewhere too.
I follow my charge quietly and use my arm to guard against those who try to get a little too close to Milo. Their pointed glares show their dissatisfaction, but I don’t give a damn about their feelings.
Nobody is touching Milo without permission, not while I’m on the job.
Never.
We enter the showroom, and I locate an empty wall to stand next to while Milo settles in his seat. There’s already a line of other celebrities’ bodyguards by the wall I found. Which makes sense, since this spot gives us an unobstructed view of the first few rows.
Ray is in the back, schmoozing and accepting business cards from everyone he comes across. They’re all trying to butter him up, and he’s eating it up.
I leave him be and focus on the person I’m hired to protect. Milo is seated right in front of the runway beside a recognizable face.
Kendra Vaughan is last year’s Emmy winner for a TV series I’ve never watched, but my sister loves. Raina is always telling me how she resonated with the actress’ portrayal of a mother’s love, something I know nothing about, since a mother is something I’ll never be.
Milo and Kendra are quietly chatting and laughing. I don’t miss the way Kendra subtly brushes her hand against Milo’s arm. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, so I let it be.
It doesn’t mean I’m not uncomfortable. It has to be my instinct as a bodyguard, and that’s the reason there’s this nasty pit in my stomach at watching them.
A man I don’t recognize sits on the other side of Milo, and the atmosphere around them instantly shifts. Milo does a great job maintaining his smile, but I see the sudden tension in his shoulders. The stranger says something and laughs, but that only earns polite smiles from Milo and Kendra.
He’s clearly making them uncomfortable, and I can’t rush over to cause a scene just because someone doesn’t know how social etiquette works.
Thankfully, the show begins, and all conversation ceases.
Upbeat techno music sounds while most of the lights dim and the runway is put under the spotlight.
Models donning this season’s latest fashion come out in succession—all with perfected catwalks and the stoic expressions people in fashion seem to prefer.
The spotlight from the stage is bright enough to cast a glow over Milo, allowing me to capture each of his expressions. He’s watching the stage and claps when he’s expected to, but the way his eyes are unfocused tells me he’s not really paying attention.
I wonder if he’s worried about his former bandmate, or if he’s annoyed with the guy sitting beside him. He makes subtle glances in his direction every so often and makes a face. Between that and the aloof air around him, his mind is obviously somewhere else.
I wonder if he’s thinking about our interaction from earlier.
I know I broke the first rule of being a bodyguard: never consider the client a friend, but I couldn’t just stand there when it was so obvious that something had been troubling him.
It’s similar to how I currently have the urge to shove my way past the runway to get to him and ask what’s making him look so dazed.
It’s my instincts at play. The same ones that call me to protect my friends and family, or even small animals.
Milo is like a small animal with all his restless energy and love for food, but that’s all when he’s in a comfortable situation. He’s clearly not comfortable now. And there’s nothing I can do about it but watch his soulless clapping and stiff smiles through the rest of the show.
Milo’s gaze shifts away from the runway, back to where I’m standing, and even though it’s impossible while I’m shrouded in darkness with the bright stage standing before us, our eyes meet anyway.
I’m not sure if it’s me he’s seeing, or he just happens to look this way, but his shoulders relax just a fraction.
The delusional side of me is telling me it’s my job to keep him like this: relaxed and worry-free. Which is totally ludicrous. While I do work for the man, his mental well-being is none of my business. My only concern is that he’s physically safe. That’s the only thing I’m contracted for.
I’m too far away to catch the gray in Milo’s eyes, but I search for the fire behind them anyway and find myself thinking that I’d do anything to make sure the fire doesn’t dim.
It may not be my job, but I realize that I care a little too much anyway.
Maybe Riley is right about me being a psycho, because this is psychotic behavior. And for once, I can’t find the urge to disprove my sister.