Page 24 of Tempted By the Safety

“Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not. You’re drunk. It happens.”

“Not about that.” He hiccups. “About the dressing room. About what I did—”

He catches himself before finishing the sentence.

“I’m not mad at you, sunshine.” The endearment is out before I can catch it.

“Holy shit!” Emily says from the back seat, delighted.

I wince, but I don’t correct it.

“For the record,” Milo says, plowing forward like he didn’t hear either of us, “I wasn’t gonna go up to that guy. I didn’t even want to. I just said it to piss you off.” A pause, his head tipping against the headrest. “I wanted to see if you’d get mad. If you’d care.”

“Milo. Let’s finish this when we get home, alright?”

“Aww,” Emily says from somewhere behind us. “You guys are adorable together.”

“Shut up, Em,” Milo mutters, and he’s still looking at me like he’s waiting for an answer.

Emily’s building turns out to be a walk-up with a buzzer panel missing half its labels. By the time we get inside, a door on the second floor is already swinging open, someone in sweatpants leaning over the railing to squint down at us.

“Em? Is that—” The girl on the landing stops mid-sentence, staring at me.

“This is Spencer,” Emily announces, hooking her arm through mine like we’re old friends. “He’s Milo’s, um.” She squints, working through it. “Boss. Boyfriend boss.”

I don’t say anything, just steer her gently the last few feet toward the stairs, handing her off to the roommate, who’s come down to meet us and takes her weight without question.

“Thanks for getting her home.”

“No problem,” I say, and head back to the car before she can ask anything else.

The rest of the drive passes without a word. I catch Milo out of the corner of my eye, head slumped against the window, curls flattened where his skull’s pressed to the glass, mouth open.

I spend the ride turning his words over, because apparently that’s a thing I do now, replay a drunk man’s sentences at every red light.

I wanted to see if you’d get mad. If you’d care.

It shouldn’t mean what it feels like it means. I know better than most that a man half-lit can’t always be held to his own testimony. Except I also know what my own chest did, hearing it.

I pull into the driveway and cut the engine.

“Hey.” I touch his shoulder. “We’re home.”

He surfaces slowly, blinking at the windshield, and for a second he looks like he doesn’t know where he landed. Then his eyes find me.

“Okay,” he mumbles, reaching for the door handle and missing it before I reach over and pop it for him.

His legs work, mostly, and by the time we’re both upright in the driveway I’ve got an arm looped under his, his weight braced along my side, warm and loose-limbed. He smells like wine and whatever product he uses in his hair, and every few steps his head tips toward my shoulder.

“You’re very tall,” he informs me, somewhere around the front steps.

“I’ve been told.”

“S’annoying. I have to look up at you all the time.” He says it like a complaint, but he’s smiling.

I get him to the door, fish my keys out one-handed since the other arm’s fully occupied holding him upright, and he leans in harder while I work the lock.