It hadn’t been planned. A heated exchange after a mission, your voices raised, tension bristling between you like static — and then it broke. In a blur of fire and hands, of biting kisses and need too long denied, Milo claimed you with the kind of intensity only a man who feels too much could give.

He wasn’t gentle at first. It was passion layered with frustration, lips crashing onto yours like waves on rocks — sharp, desperate, consuming. He didn’t say much, didn’t need to. His touch spoke louder than words. The way he held you close even after, skin against skin, letting out quiet exhales like he’d finally found relief.

You thought it ended there. But he didn’t roll away. Instead, his fingers — usually so precise, so controlled — dragged softly across your spine. Featherlight touches traced the slope of your back, the curve of your hip. He thought you were asleep. Maybe he hoped you were. Maybe that’s why he let his guard down for just a moment — long enough to press a kiss to your shoulder. Long enough to whisper your name, barely audible.

Later, you felt the bed shift.

He stood, pulling his pants back on, silent as a ghost. Then came the scent of warm tea… the sting of healing salve. He returned quietly with what you'd half-heartedly asked for earlier — and more. Food. Water. A warm cloth. His fingers were careful, clinical almost, when he cleaned the marks he’d left. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak more than a curt, “Hold still.”

And when the sky began to turn pale, he left. No dramatic farewell. No lingering glances. He just… disappeared before sunrise. But not before he’d tucked the blanket over you again, and left a small bag on the table — paid in full for everything.

The room felt colder once he was gone. And despite everything… You knew it hadn’t been just a hookup. Not to him. Not with the way his fingers trembled when they touched you, like he was afraid he’d never get to again.