Page 168 of What We Bury

Her arms loosen, just slightly, and I force myself to meet her eyes. “I’m so sorry, kitten. For the cameras. For watching. I violated your privacy. Yours most of all, because it’s your home and your trust. But Amy lives there too, and Micah was there, and Holden, and anyone who walked through that door got caught in something I set up without permission. I didn’t understand how wrong that was until four men who also love you told me to my face.”

She’s quiet for a long time. The alley hums with distant traffic and the muffled clang of dishes from the kitchen. A seagull screams overhead, which feels appropriate.

“You want to know what pisses me off the most?” she says finally.

“Tell me.”

“It’s not only the cameras. I mean, the cameras are bad. They’re really bad, Milo. I understand why you did it, and I believe you when you say it came from wanting to protect me. But the cameras are the thing you did. The part that hurts is that you decided I didn’t get a vote.” She uncrosses her arms. “What pisses me off is that you didn’t ask. I don’t mind being watched—not always. I kind of like knowing one of you is there, if I’m honest. But you all keep making decisions about my safety without me, and this time you did it in my home. My mom. Brock. The system. Everyone decides what happens to Sage without asking Sage. I can’t have that from you too.”

The words hit like a blade between the ribs. Not because they’re cruel—because they’re true.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.” She looks at me, and her expression isn’t angry anymore. It’s something more complicated. Tired, maybe. Sad. The face of someone who keeps having to teach people how to love her and is exhausted by the curriculum. “I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t make decisions about my life without me. Ever. If you think I need cameras, ask me. If you think I’m in danger, tell me. If you think I need protecting, protect mewithme, not behind my back. I am not a thing to be managed. I’m a person. Treat me like one.”

“I will. I promise. I’ll be radically team Sage from now on.”

“Thank you. And if you break that promise, Milo, I won’t be angry. I’ll just be done. And that’s worse.”

“I know it is.”

The words land so hard my lungs forget what they’re for. Not angry. Done. I can survive anger. I can flirt with rage. I don’tknow what to do with the kind of silence that means I lost her because I taught her not to trust me.

We stand there. The silence isn’t hostile. It’s the kind that follows surgery, when the wound is open and clean, and you’re both just waiting to see if it’ll heal.

“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly. “Everything I feel for you is real. I know I hide behind the chaos and the comedy and the—” I wave my hand vaguely. “The whole Milo thing. But underneath all of that, I need you to know that I see you. You’re special to me and I will do anything to make sure you’re safe and protected—anything. I want to make you happy, spend time with you. And I’m sorry I made you feel like you were just another feed on a screen.”

She blinks. Looks away. And when she looks back, her eyes are bright and open in a way that makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.

“Come here,” she says.

I step forward. She reaches out and grabs the front of my shirt. And not gently, either. She grabs and pulls me into a hug that almost knocks the air out of me. Her face presses into my chest and her arms wrap around my waist, and she holds on like she’s making a decision with her whole body.

I hold her back. Chin on the top of her head. Eyes closed. Breathing her in. My heart hammers so hard it’s probably tapping against her cheek. I love that for her. Love this for me.

“Milo?”

“Mm.”

“The wreath was really funny.”

I laugh. It comes out shaky and wet, and I realize with horrifying clarity that I’m about three seconds from crying in an alley behind a diner, and if that happens, I will never recover. “The florist really did give me a discount. I think she felt sorry for me.”

She laughs too, muffled against my chest, and tips her head back to look at me. Her chin is resting on my sternum. She searches my face with something that isn’t forgiveness. Softer than anger, sharper than mercy. More than I deserve, probably.

“Milo,” she whispers.

“Yes, kitten.”

I don’t move. Every reckless part of me wants to, but I just promised not to take, not to presume, not to turn wanting into access.

So I wait.

She rises on her toes, her hand sliding from my chest to the back of my neck, and pulls me down herself—closing the gap that’s been shrinking since the night I watched her turn a knife into a declaration of war.