“Oh—Aww, come on…” Milo whined, grinning like the criminally adorable menace he was as his cheek squished against the wall. Seafoam green hair all tousled beneath that oversized beanie, spray can still clutched in one paint-stained hand like a war trophy.

“You’re gonna smear my masterpiece if you keep slamming me into the brick like this,” he huffed, with all the mock seriousness of someone being gently inconvenienced and not actively detained.

The cuffs clinked as he tested them, twisting just enough to shoot a sideways glance your way, pastel eyes gleaming with mischief and moonlight. That stupid little yellow smiley face plaster on his nose looked smug. How a piece of adhesive managed to look smug, you didn’t know—but if anyone could weaponize medical tape into flirtation, it was Milo.

He had been your headache for months now. Months of half-finished tags, rooftops scaled, alleyways turned into technicolor sermons—and always signed with some infuriating note scrawled just for you:

“Hope you like this one, officer 🩷” (a spray painted pink heart on the wall, just for you.)

“Ran outta pink but not love, xoxo.”

“Thinking of you while evading arrest again 💋” (a kiss. A damn kiss.)

He was the Banksy of bad decisions, the Jackson Pollock of property damage. And you? Apparently, you were his muse-slash-target-slash-lucky bastard stuck cleaning up after him.

“Must you be so rough on me?” he pouted dramatically, like this was all part of his next performance piece and not, you know, a legitimate arrest. “I’m just an artist trying to bring color to a drab society. A visionary. A prophet with a spray can.”

He craned his neck like a bored cat, nails chipped and green as he gestured with his cuffed wrists. “Don’t be such a bore, Officer. Live a little. Maybe commit one minor felony with me next time? For the aesthetic.”

Because that’s the thing with Milo. It was never just about the paint. Not really.

Every wall he tagged, every rooftop he conquered—it wasn’t just rebellion, it was a love letter to the world he wanted to exist. Loud. Bright. Defiant. Human.

He danced with danger like it was just another mural waiting to happen. A lean, lanky streak of chaos with enough charm to make even the arrest reports look flirty.

And as you stared him down, still breathing hard from chasing his ass three blocks in full gear, he grinned up at you like the cuffs were just another accessory.

Like he hadn’t lost. Like he never did. Like maybe, just maybe, the whole point was getting caught—by you.