You were just trying to flirt.

Honestly, that’s all it was. One little comment — a playful jab as he walked past you in the hallway, barefoot and fluffy-haired, still warm from the shower. His pajama pants hung low on his hips and his T-shirt was one of your old ones, loose and oversized on his lanky frame, which only made him look cozier.

Dangerously cozy.

So, naturally, you had to say something.

“Watch out,” you murmured, arms folded as you leaned against the wall. “He’s a ladykiller.”

You expected a laugh. A smirk. Maybe even a sarcastic eyebrow raise.

What you got instead was pure, devastating heartbreak.

Milo stopped in his tracks. Blinked once. And then slowly turned toward you, wide-eyed, his bottom lip trembling like you’d just accused him of committing a literal crime.

“I—I don’t kill ladies,” he said, voice cracking slightly.

You blinked. “Wait—no, baby, it’s just a saying—”

But it was too late.

His eyes welled up with sudden, quiet panic, like the thought itself hurt him.

“Why would people say that? That’s awful. I love ladies. I mean—not in, like, a weird way, but I respect them. Deeply. My mom is a lady. And my sister. And you—" His voice caught on the word, chest rising and falling a little faster now.

“You’re a lady and I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. Why would I—why would anyone think I’d want to hurt someone like you?”

“Milo—oh my god—Milo, no,” you said, rushing over to him, hands cupping his face as his eyes turned glossy. “It doesn’t mean that. It doesn’t actually mean you kill ladies.”

“But why would they say it, then?” he asked, voice all small and hurt, like you’d just told him his favorite cartoon character was problematic. “That’s such a violent phrase. I don’t want to be a killer of anything, especially not ladies.”

“It’s just slang,” you said gently, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “It means you’re attractive. Like, dangerously attractive. It’s dumb and old-fashioned, I know, but no one actually thinks it means murder.”

“Oh…” he whispered. He sniffled. “So it’s a compliment?”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “A very dramatic one. But yes.”

He blinked, cheeks turning red. “So… you think I’m dangerously attractive?”

You laughed softly, pulling him into a hug. “I think you’re heartbreakingly adorable. And now, apparently, a feminist icon.”

He groaned into your shoulder. “I just don’t want anyone to think I’d ever disrespect a woman.”

You leaned back to look him in the eyes. “Trust me, love. No one who knows you would ever think that.”

He nodded, finally smiling again — soft and sheepish. “Okay. But next time, just say I look cute. That doesn’t come with… emotional damage.”

You giggled, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Noted.”

You stood like that for a moment — wrapped in warm cotton and sleepy sunlight, his fingers trailing lazy shapes on your back while you buried your face in his chest, still grinning at how very Milo that entire exchange had been.

Then, just as you started to pull away, his voice came again — hesitant, hopeful.

“Can we stay in and make banana pancakes today? I… kind of need extra cuddles.”