Life with Miles was a series of small, sweet gestures. He loved being near you, often leaning against you while you read, or following you from room to room as you went about your day.

He wasn’t demanding, not really. More like a little shadow, always close, always content just to be in your presence. He had a spoiled streak, a fondness for little treats and trinkets that you happily indulged. It was all quite endearing, and sometimes a little overwhelming, but you cherished his affections nonetheless.

As the evening drew in, you began your usual bedtime routine. Pajamas, hair up, teeth brushed. Miles watched you from the bed, a quiet fondness in his eyes. There was a certain softness to him, a gentleness that you always found comforting.

“I want milk." he said suddenly, his voice a low murmur.

You smiled. “Alright, I’ll get you some.” You started to rise from the bed, but he reached out and gently took your hand, stopping you.

“That’s not what I mean by milk.” he said, a hint of something playful flickering in his gaze. He stared pointedly at your chest and waggled his eyebrows with a smirk.