Night Alpha

23 - Paint Pen

I don't mean to push him to talk, sit on the edge of the bed once more and take off a sweater now that the room has heated back to its normal warmth. I see his feet in front of me as I pat my hair down, he stands this time, back straight and strong neck, nods again as he reaches for the sweater. He leaves for the office, pushes the door behind him just enough to leave an inch open, my sweater still in hand.

-

I don't mean to fall asleep but the crying and gathering the strength- the courage to face him has drained me more than I thought. I when I wake up the sun has started to come down, painting the room in shades of orange. It feels like I wasted the day, maybe it doesn't matter. I take off the cover I don't remember putting on, wipe away a yawn too loud. I sit to revisit the memories of earlier, the awe and gentle stroke.

I shake my head when I feel my cheek heat, try to wipe that away too. I feel groggy like I sleep to long. I'm definitely not going to be able to sleep tonight. I stretch lazily, on the bed and then out. Milo must still be in the office, because can I hear his typing, I still don't know what he does somehow. There's not much I can do now, so I head to him, pushing the door open.

Milo sits behind his desk, focused on his task, pen in hand and papers neatly stacked on each side of him. He looks serene, basked in the dusk's sun like a halo around his darkened figure. He always seems calmer when nature touches him, at ease. Just like the sun on his exposed skin seems to give him the strength to gather fuller breaths, the power to stand taller. I feel like maybe it has an effect on me too.

I let out another yawn that I don't bother to hide, one at which he looks up, brows lifting from his screen with his face. Glasses would suit him. He may look as unfazed as usual, but I've gotten better at reading him. The way his hands stopped, the slight clench of his jaw and his wandering eyes. He's still thinking about earlier, what part I'm not sure of.

I see him lick his teeth behind his lips, but he goes back to his work with a final glance aimed at my hands. I can't help but to read into every of his actions somehow. Yet, it's not out of fear this days. I love to grab the red cover that I've been carrying around more lately. But I'm too curious and the mood seems perfect, so instead of walking to the sofa I move to his desk and grab the chair just in front.

With the colors turning darker, less orange and more purple, I see him better, can't help but to pinch my lips at the sweater he's wearing- my sweater. I try to stifle my laugh, but can't help the shake of my chest and shoulder. Still just a kid. He gives a glare over his screen, but has moved into the large desk just a bit more, his hand closer to the edge than before. I push the book higher to hide my face, opened to a random page because I have no intention to study.

I hear a sharp inhale, feel him move behind the hard cover. I look up to find him slightly crouched over the wooden desk, slightly annoyed, inquisitive. One of his eyebrow raises with a question that I decide to ignore. I slouch in the chair, further away from him.

« What? » it's spoken in the way he always does, short and simple, clear and finite. I almost laugh at his tone, but he slaps the laptop closed, hand coming to grab the edge of the desk while the other still hangs on the pen. Like maybe he forgot about it. I ponder wether or not to answer truthfully, because maybe it's too soon to push his buttons. But the mood feels right and somehow in the dying sun's shade he seems collected.

« Nice sweater. » I use the book to hide my smirk but the cover does nothing to mask my tone. His face first turns to ignorance like maybe he did it unknowingly, like maybe it's nothing important. Just a piece of clothing.

His body freezes and his face heats with recognition, like it doesn't wether it was intentional or not, because he did it anyway. Because the pen slits in half in his hand, the desk creaking under the pressure of his palm and he looks like a child taken doing something bad again. He doesn't move for a while and I watch the ink that splattered on his papers, on the desk and on his cheek.

I think he might collapse on the desk to hide his red face, might hide his clenched up hands under the desk. But Milo moves silently when he rises, lets parts of the broken pen fall with the rest. He leans over the desk, face still red but with a bright smile on his face that turns predatory with his body towering over mine.

And I don't know wether I'm glad there's a desk between us or that we wear the same size, because he leans in enough to push the book down with a finger. He pushes it down until I see ink paint the paper, until it lays on my knees and his eyes go over it. Only then do I notice the sun is out, but the moon already outlines his silhouette in the dark and I squint my eyes to see amusement in his, to see playfulness in his smile.

« Nice studying. »

-

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To anyone reading this, I wish you the best in 2024. I hope you achieve every dream, I hope you heal from the things you don't talk about. Much love.