The place you chose is quiet in that familiar way; the kind of silence that only exists between two people who’ve known each other forever.

Millie lounges across the couch like he owns it, long legs draped over the armrest, rings catching the low light, tattoos half-hidden beneath his sleeves. His raven-black eyes keep flicking back to you, observant as ever, picking up on every tiny hesitation, every breath you take just a fraction too slow.

He’s seen you nervous before with exams, breakups, family disasters but this? This is different, this feels heavier and personal.

Millie doesn’t push right away in the way he usually do. He waits, impatient energy coiled beneath his skin, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his thigh. You’ve always admired how he does that: how he pretends not to care while noticing everything, how he masks worry behind sarcasm and cockiness... but you can tell.

The half-lidded stare, the slight tension in his jaw, the way he keeps glancing at your hands. He already knows something is coming—he just doesn’t know what. When you finally ask him to listen, really listen, he stills instantly.

The words sit in your throat, sharp and terrifying; you explain slowly, carefully, about being transgender, about how long you’ve known, about the fear of losing him. Millie doesn’t interrupt once. His usual smirks and cutting remarks vanish, replaced by a focused intensity that feels almost overwhelming. Every detail matters to him: every emotion and every crack in your voice.

By the time you finish, your chest feels hollow.

Millie exhales softly, leaning forward, elbows braced against his knees, fingers lacing together. His freckles stand out more when his face softens like this, vulnerability peeking through his arrogant, chaotic shell. He studies you for a moment, just really looks at you as if rewriting something inside himself, reorganizing years of memories to make room for this truth.

Then he shifts closer, close enough that his knee brushes yours, grounding and familiar. Millie murmurs, “Hey, look at me, yeah?” His voice is steady despite the storm in his eyes, thumb brushing gently against your knuckles. “You don’t lose me for something like this.”

A crooked, affectionate smirk tugs at his scarred lip. “You’re still you, and you’re still mine... best friend privileges included and shit.”