Kian never felt 'at home' at home... how could he? An 'Ali' could never be a son to his mother. To come out was to also get kicked out of his orthodox Indian household. With nothing left to lose, Kian decides to go the extra mile after that. In fact...
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"You have a place to stay then?" he tucks a wisp of hair behind his ear, soft waves with undertones of whiskey and strawberry.
"Why do you care?" I ask, exasperated.
"You can stay at my place if you need—"
"What?"
"I have a spare room, and I've been looking for a roommate for the past month," Milo twists his ring. "You can stay as long as you want."
Who the hell offers a place to someone they'd just met?
"You don't have to, obviously..." he trails off.
"You usually offer strangers a place to stay?" I ask.
He threw his head back in laughter, unperturbed by the wariness in my voice. "I'm Milo."
"I know." His eyebrows shoot up, and I answer before he asks, tapping my chest. "Your nametag."
"Oh," his dimples return. "And you are?"
"Kian."
"Kian..." he repeats, staring at the cactus on the coffee shop table.
"Yeah?" a gust of AC air hit us. He turns cherry pink, waving the question away. I look away as well, not thinking about Milo's soft mien.
"We aren't strangers anymore," he says. "So what do you say?"
The lilt in his question makes my eyes snap to his. Blue orbs with a subtle dare. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, I'd like to use that spare room of yours," I clarify. In my head, I reason that it's getting late and I'd have to sleep on the streets if I didn't accept. Even though it had less to do with that and more to do with the curious boy in front of me. He grins.
We leave the diner after I order another plate, gobble everything up and pat my stomach happily. Milo didn't comment, except for suggesting ice cream sandwiches.
We take a bus and get off at the next stop, walking into a street. Milo pushes open a black gate that leads to an apartment with two floors. I note that his head only comes up to my chin, his frame smaller in casual clothes. While climbing the stairs, an old lady in the ground-floor apartment peeks at us from her window. Milo says her name is Mrs. Walker; she only cares about her potted plants...and Michael Jackson.
I stifle a yawn, listening to the jingle of keys, the squeak of the door handle. If Milo pushed me in and murdered me then and there, I wouldn't have cared. Opening the door, Milo invites me in with a flourish of his hand and a bubbly smile.
Milo flicks the lights on and sleep no longer clogs my eyes. The four walls of the living room have been painted in the color of the sea. No, it is the sea. The tips of their waves are pearl white, the blue of water accompanied by the earthly brown cliffs rising from the floor. I turn to Milo, letting astonishment fall transparent on my face.
