There’s never a dull moment with him, that’s for sure.
“Aren’t you going to bring a coat?” I ask when I see Milo pressing the elevator button. The hoodie looks thin enough that it won’t do much in keeping him warm. “It’s windy outside, and the snow hasn’t melted yet.”
He shrugs. “We’re going from car to building. I’ll be fine.”
The elevator opens, and Milo calls for me to hurry up. I have to remind myself that he’s a fully grown adult and can take care of himself. But it doesn’t bode well when he starts shivering as soon as we step into the underground parking garage.
“How about you wait inside while I get the car,” I tell him.
“It’s fine. Walking will warm me up,” he says stubbornly, but his arms cross around his chest as he hugs himself.
I sigh and shrug off my leather jacket to drape it over his shoulders.
“I’m fine—”
“Just takeit. I run hot anyway,” I tell him. Plus, unlike him, I’m wearing clothes meant for New York’s snowy winters.
He doesn’t argue and follows me to the car. I open the back door for him out of habit, but he sidesteps me, slips into the passenger seat, then turns around to look at me through the back door and grins. “Well? C’mon! Ethel is waiting, and she’s not a patient one.”
I shake my head, but I can’t keep the smile off my face as I take my seat. Milo already slipped his arms into the sleeves of my leather jacket. He’s absolutely drowning in it, and looking fucking adorable.
I turn to sit straight in my seat and start the car. Milo messes with the radio as soon as the engine starts, flicking through the channels without even giving them a listen.
“Tell me when to stop,” he suddenly pipes up. His hand is still pressing the button, repeatedly changing the station.
“What are you—”
“When?”
“Stop?” I comply without really understanding what game we’re playing.
Milo releases his trigger finger as soon as the word is out, and we land on a station that’s currently playing a song sung by a familiar voice.
“It’s your newest single,” I casually comment as I pull up the GPS and input Ethel’s nursing home address. I already have it saved on my phone since it was listed as one of Milo’s frequented places in his file.
“Careful there, Rangecroft. You’re starting to sound like an Itty-bitty.”
“There’s nothing itty-bitty about me,” I reply, recalling I’d used the same argument with Reagan when she first told me about his fandom name.
“No, there is not,” Milo agrees and looks me up and down. There’s nothing playful about his gray gaze; it’s all uncontained appreciation and something too close to desire.
I focus on driving and shift the car into reverse to start our journey to Jersey City, where Ethel’s nursing home is located. Milo flips down the sun visor and rubs something on his lips. It’s the ointment, and a smile hangs on my mouth, knowing he’s using something I got him.
The drive is thankfully uneventful, besides Milo’s impromptu karaoke session, where I learn two things. One of which is that any rumors of Milo using auto-tune must come from jealousy, because he has the voice of an angel. Like, seriously, he sounds good even when he’s laughing through half the song and not even trying.
The second lesson is that Ireallycan’t say no to Milo. Not when he’s begging and still looking adorable in my jacket, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him bring the sleeve up to his nose to sniff.
So when he begs me to sing, despite me being the complete opposite of a singer—the voice of death, is what I believe Reagan called it—I cave and allow myself to be laughed at, and find that I don’t even care, because Milo is smiling from the heart as if our earlier quarrel had never happened.
The excitement is amplified even more when we finally make it to the nursing home. Milo is hopping out of the caras soon as I park. He’s still wearing my jacket. The sleeves are so long on him that they swing freely on either side of him as he runs into the nursing home.
Running to catch up with him at least means I’m inside before I even have a chance to feel the biting wind.
“Ethel! I’m here!”
I follow Milo’s voice and see him hugging a little old woman. Ethel is half Milo’s size and absolutely drowning in the hug, so I can’t really get a good look at her until they pull apart.
Ethel is a tiny woman with a head full of thick, gray hair and a wrinkly face etched in a permanent smile. She’s the typical sweet, old lady you think of when imagining a grandmother, which is not what I’ve been expecting from Milo’s earlier comment.
