Milo
HAVING A FALLING out with Jasper felt alien.
It was wrong in a way that made my skin crawl.
Since the day Mom had taken me in, we’d never had a real fight.
Most siblings I knew fought, screaming and slamming doors, but we had always been the opposite.
People joked that we talked like we shared a brain, trading inside jokes and references that nobody else could follow. It was special. We were special.
I was furious. For two days, the scene I’d walked in on replayed in my head on a merciless loop, reigniting my rage every time I thought it might finally simmer. And Jasper? He had zero reaction to me icing him out.
I wanted conflict. I wanted him to hurt the way I was hurting, but he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction.
Instead, he softened the sharp edges between us with small talk, acting like the entire thing hadn’t happened, and pushed through strained chats in the hallway and around the coffee pot in the mornings while I spiralled internally over every question I was too afraid to ask.
He was waiting me out, I fucking knew it.
This wasn’t even about what happened anymore.
It was about who folded first—a game that I refused to lose.
He hadn’t been there for me when I needed him.
It was unforgivable. Wasn’t I more important than a quick fuck?
With my best friend, no less? It was supposed to be the two of us.
Whenever the nightmares came, whenever the horrible, empty feelings crept in, he was supposed to be there to chase them all away.
I didn’t want to know why he fucked Oliver. There wasn’t an explanation on the face of the Earth that would justify it, and the only thing I wanted was for him to beg for my forgiveness and promise it would never happen again.
I just wanted things to be normal, whatever normal was, only I didn’t have the right to demand those things. I didn’t own him. I couldn’t stop him from making friends or taking lovers. Those weren’t things reserved for brothers. He wasn’t mine to keep.
I didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand myself.
All I knew was that I was scared. I was terrified that someday someone might become more important than me.
He’d finish school, maybe find someone, get married—God, imagining it made me fucking sick.
The idea of Jasper no longer being available when I needed him, of his time being swallowed up by other people, felt like a death sentence.
My phone went off three times in quick succession.
Oliver: Come on, Mi.
Oliver: It wasn’t serious.
Oliver: Please talk to me.
I brushed my thumb over the phone screen, rereading every message Oliver had sent since the blow-up, sinking deeper into the driver’s seat of my freezing car. Winter was too close to linger outside much longer with the engine off, my joints stiff and knuckles red.
Staying out here meant risking caving and replying to one of Oliver’s messages. Going inside meant dancing around whatever the hell was happening between Jasper and me. Neither option was appealing.
In the passenger seat were bags of liquor and snacks. Jasper didn’t know it yet, but it was party night. I’d already sent out the invites, and there was no going back.
I needed to act out.
As I reached for the door handle, my phone lit up again. This time, it was a text from my friend Nina, asking about tonight. I grinned and sent her a quick response to let her know we were still on.
Tonight was all about pushing Jasper’s buttons and shattering his sense of control. He said I could never be too much for him, and tonight, we were going to find out how true that was.
I grabbed the bags and headed up to the apartment, bracing myself to be in the same space as him again. After getting inside and kicking off my shoes, I spotted two empty bookshelves in the living room that I recognized from Mom’s place. He must have picked them up while I was out.
I glanced at his bedroom door and found it closed but not sealed. Relief loosened some of the tension in my chest, like some wrong had been made right. He wasn’t shutting me out, even if I was doing it to him. It was killing me to want him close and nowhere near me at the same time.
I shuffled into the kitchen and unloaded my haul, arranging the liquor and snacks meticulously, like a trophy display. I snapped a picture and posted it in the group chat all of my friends belonged to, already focused on the night ahead.
“What a surprise.” Jasper clicked his tongue, reaching around me to grab a bag of chips and inspect it. “No real food, huh?”
I startled, too self-absorbed to notice he’d left his room. The anger that had finally cooled began to swell again. He was so casual, so unbothered, while I was drowning in my own thoughts. He didn’t have the right to be worried about what I chose to eat anymore.
“It’s party night,” I explained, as if it were obvious, turning around to face him.
Nothing. Not a single reaction to the news that I was going to throw a party without asking. Fuck, he pissed me off.
“What, you can’t eat real food at a party?” he teased, tossing the chips down and bracing his hands on either side of the counter, boxing me in and standing close enough for me to see my reflection in the deep brown eyes behind his glasses.
“Fuck off. Do you have to be so overbearing?” The scant distance between us had me on edge, an influx of indiscernible emotions sweeping through.
The words didn’t feel good, but I couldn’t stop myself. He didn’t seem nearly as affected by my attitude as I needed him to be. It was unfair that he knew what I was playing at—that he knew me. It made me want to push him further, to hit the glass until it cracked.
“Would you take care of yourself otherwise?” he countered, nails tapping against the counter.
“I take care of myself just fine.” My voice pitched higher than I would’ve liked.
He tilted his head, his undivided attention threatening to peel back all of my layers.
“Who are you trying to convince? Me, or you?”
Before I could shove him away, he was already retreating to his room. I closed my eyes and rubbed at them with my palms, trying to reel myself in. When I blinked the blurriness away, he was back.
There was a McDonald’s bag in his hand.
“What’s this for?” I muttered, clinging to my anger. Without it, I had nothing.
“You.” He rolled his eyes and pushed the bag toward me.
Reluctantly, I took it, peering inside at the chicken burger and fries. The fact that he always knew what I liked and needed only served to fan the flames of my outrage. How could he know me this well and still do what he did?
“I never said I was hungry,” I said defensively, reaching inside the bag and putting a fry between my lips anyway.
“You’re not getting wasted on an empty stomach, and I was grabbing something to eat while you were out anyway.” He shrugged, watching me with a glimmer of amusement that made me want to burn everything to the ground.
Eating almost felt like defeat. I turned my back on him, scrolling on my phone and picking at fries in hopes that he would leave.
“Why are you still here?” I fumed, glancing over my shoulder.
He was still standing there, that smug-ass look plastered on his disgustingly charming face. Political science was definitely the right field for him because he looked the part in a way that I couldn’t quite pinpoint.
Was it the glasses? The slicked-back dark brown hair he always pushed out of his face when it was close to being time for a haircut? The way his lips curled into a confident smirk? Or just the energy he radiated—cocky and self-assured?
“It could be because I also live here. You remember, right? Begging me not to leave you alone?” Jasper taunted, chest brushing against my back as he reached into the bag and stole a fry.
“Can’t say I do,” I lied casually.
“Oh, so I can go home then, right?” he asked, voice thick with sarcasm.
My lips twitched. I snatched the bag from the counter and rolled the top down, tucking it under my arm. I wanted to tell him he could take his shit and leave, that I never wanted to see his stupid face ever again.
But I couldn’t.
“You are home,” I corrected.
“That’s what I thought.”
I turned his way again, the bag of food clutched to my chest like a shield.
What it was protecting me from, I didn’t know.
I flinched as he raised a hand over my head and paused there, searching my face.
After a long beat, he slid his fingers into my hair and ruffled it.
My scalp tingled traitorously, and my breath came out shaky.
I wasn’t going to cry over a little physical contact. Fuck that. Fuck him.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, lacking conviction.
“Okay.” His hand slipped away, frustration blooming in its wake.
Why wouldn’t he double down and push me harder? Why would he do what I asked and not what I needed? Bitterness filled my lungs, desperate for conflict that he wasn’t giving me. I wanted him to feed the chaos in me, to give me a reason to keep pulling myself apart.
It was like being edged in the worst possible way—and it made me want to be worse.