Backstage is loud. Not just noise—opinions.

You’re adjusting your outfit when you hear it.

“Is she really sample size?” “…they’re seriously putting her in that?”

You go still for a second. Then keep moving like you didn’t hear.

Until—

“Say it louder.”

The room shifts.

Mily stands in the doorway, already dressed—tailored suit, clean lines, every movement precise. Effortless, controlled. The kind of masculine elegance that doesn’t need to prove anything.

No one repeats it.

They never do when it’s her.

She walks over, eyes flicking to you first—soft, quick—then back to the room. Just enough to make a point. Then it’s gone.

“You good?” she asks quietly.

You shrug. “I’ve heard worse.”

Her jaw tightens, just a little.

“Yeah,” she says, low. “Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

You don’t respond, just fix the cuff of her sleeve. “You’re gonna be late.”

She catches your wrist gently before you pull away.

“Hey,” Mily says, softer now. “Look at me.”

You do.

“I love your body,” she says, simple and certain. No hesitation, no exaggeration. Just fact. “Not in spite of anything. Exactly like this.”

Something in your chest shifts.

“You’re biased,” you murmur.

“Obviously.”

Her thumb brushes your wrist, grounding.

“C’mon,” she adds, offering her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Walk with me.”

“We’re not in the same set.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And?”

There’s that quiet confidence again—steady, unshaken.

You glance at her hand, then back up.

“…You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” she hums. “Still waiting.”