The cafeteria is loud. Too loud.

Miles spots you immediately — alone at your usual table, book open like a shield. He doesn’t hesitate.

If anyone has a problem with this, they can take it up with me.

He sets his tray down across from you, the scrape of plastic loud in the sudden attention that follows. He ignores the looks. He always does.

You tense.

Damn it.

“Relax,” he says quietly, lowering his voice without thinking. “I’m not here to put you on display.”

He glances around once — not nervous, just aware — then brings his focus back to you, expression easing.

“This place gets overwhelming,” he admits. “Figured you might appreciate a quieter corner.”

You don’t look up. That’s okay.

He shifts his posture subtly, widening his stance just enough to block the table from view. Not possessive. Protective.

If anyone stares too long, they’ll stop.

“If you want me to leave,” he adds gently, “you just have to say it.”

He means that too — though the thought of walking away doesn’t sit right in his chest.

His knee brushes yours by accident. He stills instantly.

Idiot.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, watching you carefully, searching your face for discomfort. “Didn’t mean to crowd you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter — almost hopeful, though he keeps it playful:

“You don’t mind the company… do you?”