Milo is sitting on the giant couch in the living room, staring at the million-dollar view, when the elevator arrives on his penthouse level. He knew I was coming, since he had to buzz me up, but he doesn’t turn around to greet me.
It’s better this way, I tell myself. It doesn’t stop the sting that goes through me. Or the pang in my heart at once again seeing that tiny back all alone on that giant couch.
I silently make my way to him and drop the paper bag from the pharmacy on the couch beside him. He glances at the bag, then looks up at me with big gray eyes that threaten to suck me into their orbit forever.
I have to look away as I explain, “Ointment. For your lip.”
Milo answers with a snort and resumes staring out the window. I stay a respectable distance away from him, but I’m close enough so he knows he’s not alone. I can’t be with himthatway, but I can still be here for him.
“We can’t do that again,” I say softly. It earns me a glare from Milo. Gray eyes land on me in a fiery blaze, but I continue, “You know this too. We were both caught up in the moment.”
“Don’t tell me howI feel,” he snarks, rightfully so. I hate when my sisters act like a know-it-all to me, and here I’m doing the same thing.
“You’re right.Iwas caught up in the moment, and I’m sorry,” I correct myself. Milo’s bottom lip slips under his teeth again, and I have to clasp my hands together to stop myself from freeing his abused lip with my thumb.
“Are you going to quit?” he asks after a minute. His poor lip is all chewed up and red.
I sigh, settle into the space next to him, and try not to take deep breaths of his scent: minty, with the crispiness of fresh apples. The mint is probably from a recent shower, and the apple, I suspect, soaked through his pores from all the apple cores he’s eaten. His scent is addicting, which has me breathing even more shallowly.
I grab the paper bag and get the ointment from inside, as well as the travel box of Q-tips I’d purchased.
“I’m not quitting,” I answer as I squeeze some of the ointment onto the Q-tip and smear it over his lips. The pharmacist said this kind was safe if it was consumed, so I don’t hesitate and generously cover his entire lip.
Milo is watching me cautiously while I work and licks his lip when I’m done.
“Don’t eat it,” I chide with a chuckle and reapply the ointment he’s licked off.
“You’re confusing me,” Milo says with a frown. At least he doesn’t try to lick the ointment off again.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I am, but I’m your bodyguard, and that means there’s a line we can’t cross.”
His brow wrinkles deeply. He opens his mouth to say something, but I continue before he can. “I meant it when I said I liked spending time with you. As a friend. Because that’s all we can ever be.”
He studies my face as if trying to glean something from it. He must find whatever he’s searching for because he’s suddenly smiling again.
Atme.
“BFFs?” he says with a now-familiar teasing glint in his eyes.
I laugh. “Sure,” I reply with a shake of my head.
“Speaking of, it’s time to visit my other BFF. She called earlier, you know? She’s like the devil, appearing when her name is said or thought of. We’d better get going before she wreaks havoc at the nursing home. She tends to do that when things don’t go her way. Or if she’s bored.” Milo uses the back of his hand to cover his mouth like he’s telling me a secret. He shoots me a wink, then jumps to his feet. “I’m just gonna get changed really quick.”
Milo runs to his room to do as he says and comes out in two minutes wearing sweatpants and a hoodie.
“I’m starting to suspect that’s your favorite outfit,” I comment as he runs downstairs.
“It’s comfortable, and I don’t have to worry about creepers taking pictures of my bare skin and spreading it online,” he says with a shrug.
I make a face. “They don’t really do that, do they?”
“They do,” Milo answers gravely. “There was the ankle incident last fall. Someone made a whole collage of just myankles from different photos, and apparently, that was enough to make the online fans hysterical. Ray told me someone made a fanfic of my ankles as the love interest, and I’m still traumatized. It’s why I don’t leave home without socks on anymore.”
I’m left staring with my mouth hung open. “I mean, you have nice ankles, I guess. But they’re…ankles,” I say.
Not to judge anyone’s fantasy, but wouldn’t they rather write about the man himself than just his ankles?
“That’s what I’m saying. But I guess every inch of me is irresistible, even my ankles,” he says with a dramatic sigh that has me snorting a laugh.
