Jasper
I COULDN’T brING myself to kick Milo out after I got home from work and found him passed out in my new room.
His scrawny body lay diagonally across my bed, curled in the fetal position with a pillow tucked between his arms and legs.
Sweat-soaked strands of bleached hair clung to his skin, and his brows were drawn together as if he were struggling to solve an equation.
The lamp on the nightstand was on despite my constant scolding about wasting electricity, its warm glow adding much-needed colour to his sickly skin.
A bottle of my cologne was clutched in his hand, and the scene managed to steal the air from my lungs.
All that was left was the instinctive urge to protect him as I carefully peeled the bottle from his grasp and tucked it away in the drawer.
“You’re in the way,” I mumbled, tugging at the pillow and meeting resistance.
He whimpered and held on tighter, his body beginning to tremble. My heart clenched as I crouched next to him, the cramped storage closet that passed for a bedroom amplifying the uneven, panicked sound of his breathing. He reeked of booze.
“Hey, I’m right here.” I squeezed his clammy hand.
My exhaustion from the day evaporated, replaced by an overwhelming need to chase away whatever haunted him, as if someone had injected espresso straight into my bloodstream.
He startled awake, jerking upright with the pillow still pressed to his chest. I stayed still as the panic drained from his eyes, recognition settling in. His breathing slowed, and he slumped back against the wall, my own adrenaline fizzling out alongside his.
There was no erasing his pain—not tonight. There was only one thing I could do, and it was a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. I’d catch up on my sleep some random Sunday, when I crashed for twelve hours straight.
“Late-night Timmies run?” I rubbed my eyes beneath my glasses and glanced at the clock. Nearly three in the morning, but coffee had long since become an emotional support beverage rather than fuel.
Milo looked away, guilt flickering across his face. Then he nodded, quick and sharp, setting the pillow aside as he focused on steadying his breathing.
“Alright.” I turned to the side, tearing open a garbage bag full of my clothes and yanking a sweater free from the heap. “Put that on, idiot, you’re gonna freeze to death.”
Even after we got into the car, he barely spoke. His eyes were glued to the passenger window, his face buried in the collar of my hoodie. Over the hum of the engine, I counted each breath he took, using them to remind my nervous system that he was still right there next to me.
“You know who doesn’t listen to music in the car?” Milo asked.
“Who?” I indulged him.
“Sociopaths.”
“Some of us actually like being able to hear ourselves think.” I smirked.
“It’s fucking weird.”
“You’re fucking weird.” I grinned, braking at a red light.
He didn’t respond, but I caught his reflection in the side mirror. That stupid smile plastered to his face warmed my blood, purpose flooding my veins. I loved making him happy.
Our late-night coffee spot was blissfully empty. The trip was nostalgic, from the cold night air to the heavy scent of coffee beans inside. There were countless late nights as teens where we’d go for walks to the nearest coffee shop, drunk off our asses with friends trailing behind us.
Milo lingered several feet back as I ordered, staring down at the tiles around his feet, drifting away again. My gut response was always to give him space, but I was finally learning where that led. I couldn’t afford to wait for him to come to me anymore.
I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him in, draping my arm over his shoulders without comment.
He stiffened, then relaxed. I kept it low-pressure, with no expectations.
I watched the menu board while we waited off to the side for our drinks, but my attention stayed on him, noting how completely he melted into me.
“You ate, right?” It came out accusatory.
Silence.
“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.
“You literally texted me that you were hungry a few hours ago.” I reminded myself that it was counterproductive to strangle him, my arm tightening slightly around his neck.
He shrugged free just as the employee slid the coffees across the counter, snatching them up with a wide grin.
“That doesn’t count as food.”
“Yes, it does.” He snickered, already heading for a booth.
I stayed behind and bought a donut before joining him in the corner next to the windows, sliding into the seat across from him and dropping the bag between us like an offering. He blinked, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face as he reached for it.
What a fucking liar.
He plucked the treat out of the bag and started eating.
The silence that followed wasn’t the comfortable kind. It was the kind Milo couldn’t tolerate, where his thoughts were too loud. I let it stretch, knowing his compulsion to fill the space would win out—and maybe, just maybe, he’d let me in.
“Did I tell you what happened?” He folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them, donut abandoned.
“No, but you don’t need to,” I said, fingers biting into my cup. “She wasn’t good enough anyway. Good riddance.”
“You always say that.” His gaze drifted. “But it’s always my fault.”
“Yeah, I don’t believe that.” I took a sip of my coffee too soon and burned my tongue, welcoming the sting.
I hadn’t seen much of Sofia, but I’d read the messages.
Milo always came to me when he spiralled, unsure as to whether he was overreacting or justified.
It was a mistake on his part, really. I’d never been keen on sharing my brother, and it bled out in ways I couldn’t control.
My advice was always the same: leave them.
“I was too much again,” he said, ignoring me, lost to the spiral he was navigating. The self-blame in his voice echoed years back to bruises, excuses, and apologies he never once owed to anyone.
He framed it as a flaw, something that needed to be buried deep beneath the sand, but all I saw was love that burned hotter than anyone else could hold.
Watching partner after partner fail him was a particularly cruel kind of torment.
I wanted to tell him that I liked the way he loved, that if he’d been mine, I would’ve handled every insecure spiral, every temper flare, every night like this. He wasn’t too much.
He’d just never been given enough.
The role I’d been assigned didn’t match the heat in my chest, but it was too late to crawl out of it. I was his brother, his safe space, and I loved being that for him.
Still, I craved more.
“It’s not you,” I said instead. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“You have to say that, you’re my brother.”
I leaned in. “Have I ever sugarcoated anything?”
He didn’t answer, clearly cycling through every time I’d told him exactly what I thought, regardless of how harsh it was. And no matter how offended he’d act every time, he always came to me.
“Exactly.” I grinned.
“Maybe something’s wrong with you, too.”
“Must be,” I said dryly. “Since I don’t abandon you for being a little needy.”
“A little?”
“A little. I think you could be worse.”
He frowned.
“I’d still be here, even if you were,” I added.
“What’s your deal-breaker then?” he interrogated. “Murder?”
I leaned back, pretending to consider it.
“Nope.”
“You’re a liar.” He fidgeted with his cup, inspecting it as if the buttons that might drive me away were hidden somewhere in the lid.
“Not when it comes to you,” I said with promise. “My love isn’t conditional. You know that.”
His hands stilled. Then he smiled, shy and tentative, thumbs brushing the rim of his cup as relief softened his posture.
“You’d change your mind if you knew,” he said quietly.
“Knew what?”
“How bad it gets. How bad I get,” his leg bounced beneath the table, making it shake. “You won’t think it’s normal.”
“Try me. And side note—we already know you’re not normal.”
He looked torn. I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head, holding his stare over the rim of my glasses.
“I hated that she had friends.”
“And?” I drawled.
“I’m serious. I didn’t want her to have friends outside of me,” he explained, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Even though I knew it was wrong.”
I waited. Nothing about this scared me.
I understood the behaviour was objectively wrong. I just couldn’t bring myself to care. Instead, I found myself marvelling at how perfectly it worked for me. I didn’t have the energy to maintain friendships anyway.
“It’s not that bad.” I shrugged.
He threaded his fingers through his loose curls.
“If she didn’t text back right away, I thought she didn’t love me.”
“Sounds like you,” I said, biting back a grin as I thought about all the times I’d left him on read to provoke him.
“You don’t get it.” He half-stood, palms slapping the table. “I don’t know where I end and my partner begins, you know? I want—”
“So you’re committed?” I cut in, sipping my coffee noisily.
He groaned and sank back into the booth.
“You’re such a freak.”
“Coming from the guy into actual freaky shit.”
That earned laughter, bright and unguarded. His freckled cheeks bloomed pink, and my hands itched to reach out and wipe the flushed skin, to feel the heat under my fingers. Only sheer willpower kept my body locked in place.
“I mean it,” I said, my tone sobering. “Accept that you’re stuck with me.”
“Promise?” He held out his pinky.
“Promise.” I hooked mine with his and squeezed.