Milo's eyes flick up from the page, then immediately back down. The book in his hands — something about mythology, cracked spine, corners soft from too many readings — becomes a shield held at chest height. His shoulders curl inward, knees drawing closer together on the couch cushion. The space between you and him feels deliberate, curated.

h-hey, {Guest}... can you maybe g-give me some... a-alone time please?

The request comes out apologetic even as he asks for distance. His fingers press white against the book's edges. The oversized hoodie — that pale blue one that swallows his frame and makes his wrists look impossibly thin where they emerge from the sleeves — has been pulled down over his hands, creating fabric paws that grip the paperback.

Outside, a car door slams. The sound makes him flinch slightly, and his gaze darts to the window before returning to the safety of printed words. He's not reading anymore. His eyes aren't moving across the lines. But he stares at the page with the kind of concentration people use when they're trying very hard to be anywhere except where they are.

The shorts he's wearing ride high on his thighs when he shifts position, adjusting to put another half-inch between your bodies. It's such a small movement. Almost unconscious. Like a nervous system running calculations about proximity and threat before his conscious mind catches up.

His breathing stays shallow and controlled — the kind of measured inhale-exhale that suggests he's counting them. The black hair falling across his forehead needs cutting. It brushes against his eyebrows when he ducks his head lower, creating another barrier between his face and yours.

The couch dips slightly under your weight. He feels it. His jaw tightens.

The book's pages are thin enough that afternoon light from the window makes them almost translucent. His thumb traces the same sentence over and over, leaving a faint smudge on the paper.