Milo:Hey, are you up? Want me to come over?
Eleven forty-seven. He waited until almost midnight to ask. Not assumed, not demanded. Asked. And I was asleep.
I stare at the ceiling. This isn't just about one shift. It's a pattern. I say yes to every emergency, every request, calling it duty. I'm reliable. But the person paying the price for that reliability is lying in an apartment that smells like warm sugar and spice, wondering if his mate is going to text him back.
I said yes to Marco in under a second. I took forty-five minutes to text Milo. That's fucked.
***
I shower in four minutes flat, throw on a clean-ish T-shirt from my locker and yesterday's jeans, and drive to Byrne's. My hair is still wet. I smell like firehouse soap and regret.
The parking lot is half-full for a Thursday. I sit in my truck with the engine off, gripping the steering wheel. I'm twenty-two hours late to the most important night of my life.
Through the window, I can see them. The corner booth. Jude is gesturing wildly with a french fry. Benji is scrolling on his phone, though I know he's listening to every word. Soren and Shay are in their usual spots, Rhys at the end with his arm around Jude. And Milo.
He's tucked in beside Soren. The dark green sweater makes him look small. His drink is barely touched. He smiles at something Jude says, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's that flat, automatic smile I used to see at Ava's dinner table before I knew what it meant.
I put that smile there.
I get out of the truck and push through the heavy wooden door.
The booth clocks me instantly. Jude's expression shifts from loud to lethal. Benji's eyes narrow into slits. Rhys gives me acalm, unreadable look that screamstread carefully. Soren is holding Milo's arm.
I ignore them all and go straight to Milo. I don't slide into the booth. I crouch right next to him, getting at eye level. I don't give a shit if the whole bar is watching.
"I fell asleep after shift and missed your text," I say, my voice rough. "I saw it this morning. I should have been awake. I should have been here. I'm sorry."
Milo stares at me. His big, dark eyes are shining, his face carefully controlled. I can practically see the old script loading behind his teeth. Theit's fine, don't worry about it, you had to work.
His mouth opens.
But he doesn't say it.
His chin tilts up. His lips press together. He looks at me, quiet and steady, and it clearly costs him everything.
"I know your job is important," he says softly. "I just need to know I matter, too."
It hits me like a backdraft. Every nerve in my body snaps to attention. This is Milo choosing the hard thing. Two weeks ago, he would have smoothed this over so I didn't have to feel like a dick. Not tonight. He's holding the line, and his bravery makes my chest ache.
Across the table, Jude starts to lean forward. Rhys drops a heavy hand on his thigh, holding him back.
"Can I sit?" I ask, glancing at the booth.
Milo nods. Soren slides out, giving Milo's arm a light squeeze before he goes, and I drop into the space across from my mate. The noise of the bar fades into a dull roar. Milo's hands are flat on the wood. I want to grab them, but I haven't earned it yet.
"You're right," I tell him. "I should have said no to Marco. I didn't, because saying yes is just what I do. It's easier than sayingI can't because I have plans with my mate. Saying that feels..." I trail off, trying to find the word.
"Selfish," Milo whispers.
The word hangs between us. I look at him, realizing we're fighting the exact same demon. His tells him his needs are a burden. Mine tells me my needs come last.
"Yeah," I agree. "I've been calling it responsibility, but it's not. It's just easier to be needed at work. There's a fire, I go in. There's an open shift, I take it. But this?" I meet his eyes. They're wet, but he's holding my gaze. "You are my priority. Not the station. Not Marco. You. I'm going to talk to Captain Reeves tomorrow. Tell him I'm not the automatic yes for last-minute swaps anymore. If I have plans with you, I'm not available. That's the change."
Milo doesn't rush to say it's okay. He sits with it. I watch the tension slowly drain out of his shoulders.
Then, he reaches across the table and covers my hand. He doesn't clutch. He just presses his palm flat against my knuckles, sliding his fingers between mine. Solid. Warm.
"I run into burning buildings for a living," I mutter, "and I can't figure out how to say no to a shift swap."