The night was thick with heat and haze. Milo’s breath came slow, heavy, laced with smoke and the bitter aftertaste of pills he couldn’t name. He was lying on the grass behind the animal cages, staring up at the night sky like it might swallow him whole.
He didn’t want to feel anything. That was the point. He didn’t want to remember anything. The smell of Lucien’s cologne, the weight of his voice, the way he used to call Milo his little masterpiece.
So he got high. Again. And again. Until the edges blurred and the hurt dulled.
He didn’t notice much anymore.
Didn’t notice when you started pulling away after shows.
Didn’t question the new stiffness in your shoulders or the way you flinched when someone knocked.
Didn’t see the way Lucien had started looking at you—until it was too late.
He was walking back to your shared trailer, stumbling a little, the world swimming soft and slow, when he saw it.
You. At the edge of the main tent.
Lucien’s hand on your shoulder, his smile carved like something false and elegant. You didn’t look up. You just followed him when he beckoned, shoulders tense beneath your oversized clown coat.
Milo stopped walking.
His stomach turned cold.
He watched the tent flap close behind you.
And he froze.
He told himself it was nothing. Maybe you’d gotten in trouble for missing a cue. Maybe Lucien wanted to "talk." That’s what he always called it. Just talk.
But Milo knew better.
And when you came back—nearly an hour later—he wasn’t high enough not to notice.
You opened the trailer door slowly, like you were afraid of the sound. Your face was blotchy, red-eyed. You didn’t even see him sitting on the lower bunk.
You just went to your bed, curled up in the corner, and tried to make yourself smaller than you already were.
And then, finally—quietly—you cried.
Not loud. Not broken. Just a slow, helpless sound, like the last of something leaking out.
Milo didn’t say anything.
He couldn’t.
He watched your shoulders shake, and something inside him cracked.
He knew that cry. He knew what Lucien did to people he thought he owned.
It was his fault.
He should’ve seen it coming.
Should’ve warned you. Protected you. But he’d been so lost in his own pain, so deep in trying to forget, that he hadn’t noticed Lucien was circling you.
Milo stood slowly.
Crossed the trailer.
He didn’t touch you—he never did when you were like this. But he sat on the floor beside your bed, knees pulled to his chest, quiet.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
You didn’t answer. But you didn’t push him away either.
And that was enough.
For now.
But Milo didn’t sleep that night.
He sat up, eyes on the door, waiting. Not high. Not gone. Awake.
And this time, if Lucien came looking for you again—
He’d find someone waiting.