His mouth twitches. The first real sign of a smile since I walked in.
"You're an idiot," he says softly.
"I'm aware."
"A big, strong, garlic-bread-making idiot who doesn't know how to prioritize."
"I'm working on it."
"Work faster." He squeezes my hand, the smile finally reaching his eyes.
My phone buzzes on the table. The screen lights up with a KnotMe notification.You have matches waiting!Perfect fucking timing.
Milo glances at the screen, then up at me.
"You know," I say, scowling at the little flame logo, "the thought of anyone else seeing your profile still makes me want to punch a wall."
"I deleted it," Milo says, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "Weeks ago. After the bite. It felt done. You?"
I pick up my phone, open the settings, and find the app. I look right at Milo as I hit delete.Are you sure?Yes. The icon vanishes. The last anonymous escape hatch, gone.
"Now," I say.
"Did he just delete it?" Jude's voice comes across the bar, shattering the moment. "KnotMe's second accidental success story, I take full credit—"
"You had nothing to do with this," Benji snaps.
"I AM THE ARCHITECT OF LOVE—"
Milo bursts out laughing. His fingers are still laced with mine, his face bright and alive. Hearing that sound, right here, surrounded by his people, is worth every ounce of guilt I've carried all day.
I stand and pull him up with me. We walk back to the main table. Jude immediately starts interrogating me about my cooking. Benji informs me he has a shovel and no alibi. Shay just gives me a single, sharp nod. Soren looks me over and smiles. Rhys catches my eye and tilts his beer—a quiet, alpha-to-alphaI know what it costs, it's worth it—and I nod back.
Milo slides into the booth next to me, his fingers pressing into my thigh under the table. It's not sexual. It's anchoring. The same way he presses into the blankets when he's building his nest, making sure everything is exactly where it belongs.
I'm the thing he's keeping in place.
Jude asks me if I've ever actually carried someone out of a burning building, Benji rolls his eyes, and Milo leans his weightagainst my side. I wrap my arm around him, breathing in his warmth, and realize this is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Milo
Ipush the Tupperware of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies a little closer to the edge of my desk. Ava's favorite. If she asks, I'll tell her it's a coincidence, but we both know I'm a terrible liar.
It's a Thursday afternoon, a few days since the night at Byrne's. The library is dead in that specific two-to-four p.m. way. Just me, a grad student passed out in the reference section, and a woman in periodicals using our Wi-Fi to stream reality TV. I've scanned the same three returns twice. My phone is face-up next to the scanner, showing a text from Callum that came in an hour ago:Gerald's leaf is drooping, should I move him?
I haven't texted back yet. I'm saving all my emotional bandwidth for what's about to walk through the door.
Ava texted this morning. Three words:Library. 2pm. Cookies.I've drafted replies and sent none. Ghosted my best friend while telling myself I was giving her space, when really I was just too scared to have the conversation. So the silence was mine as much as hers, and that made it worse. Those three words this morning made me cry into my cereal. Callum held me and didn't say I told you so, even though he'd been saying she'd come back.I wasn't sure. It hasn't been that long, but Ava and I have never gone this many days without actually talking. Every morning I woke up and checked my phone and the distance between us felt heavier.
She breezes in at 2:17, double-fisting coffees. She looks tired—more tired than I've seen her in a while—and she's wearing the expression of someone who's made up her mind to just rip the Band-Aid off. She drops into the chair across from my desk—the same one she's claimed fifty times before, leaving a permanent dent in the cushion—and slides an oat milk latte toward me. She doesn't ask how I take it. She's never had to.
"You stress-baked," she notes, eyeing the Tupperware.
"I didn't stress-bake."
"These are peanut butter chocolate chip. You only make these when you're freaking out." She pops the lid and grabs a cookie without asking. "You made these the night before your psych midterm and the day your parents' water heater blew. So what's the crisis?"
"Nothing. I just felt like baking."
