Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Darren used to think he was lucky.

Lucky to have a warm bed, a pack that—on the surface—tolerated him, and most of all, Milo Greer. Milo, with his firecracker attitude, his quick grin, his strength that belied his compact frame, and a way of looking at Darren like he’d strung the stars himself. It was too good to last, Darren thought. Eventually, the world would catch up. It always did.

Things had been good for a while—shockingly good. He and Milo had slipped into a rhythm that felt more like a heartbeat than a relationship. Mornings curled into each other, Milo grumbling half-asleep while Darren pressed kisses into his temple. Evenings meant Milo tucked under Darren’s arm, joking with Babe and Asher, occasionally heckling Milo for blushing at Darren’s corny pet names. For a time, Darren thought maybe—just maybe—he could belong.

But the whispers never really stopped.

Christian made sure of that.

It started small. A muttered comment when Darren occasionally started showing up at pack outings. A look exchanged when he joined in on a pack run for once. But then came the nickname—“Squeaker.” Darren pretended not to hear the laughter when Amanda snorted and repeated it in the kitchen, biting into an apple like she wasn’t digging the insult deeper with every crunch.

He knew what they meant.

Vampire chew toy.

He could still feel Quinn’s teeth in his shoulder sometimes—phantom pain, seared into his nerves like a brand. It didn’t matter that it was over. That Quinn was long gone. In the eyes of Christian and Amanda—and maybe others—he was still tainted. Stained. The fuck-up. The outsider David kept around out of pity, the one who didn’t quite fit no matter how hard he tried.

He didn’t tell anyone. Not even Milo.

Especially not Milo.

Because if Milo knew, if he heard what they were saying… he’d fight them. Of course he would. And Darren couldn’t let that happen. Milo had standing in the pack. Respect. Pride. Darren couldn’t be the reason he threw that away.

So he decided to do the one thing he could do right: let go.

Milo was stretched across the couch when Darren brought it up, shirt rumpled, eyes heavy-lidded and glowing faintly from their earlier run. He looked so safe. Darren almost didn’t go through with it. Almost sat down, curled against him, and asked for just one more night.

Instead, he stood stiff and silent by the doorway, fists clenched.

“Milo,” he said softly.

Milo turned toward him, smile curling at the edges. “Yeah, babe?”

Darren’s chest twisted. He had to do it. Had to rip the bandage off.

“I don’t think this is working anymore.”

Milo blinked. The smile faded. “What…?”

“This. Us.” Darren’s voice was flat, practiced. “I don’t think it’s right. We’re better off not doing this.”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“Bullshit.” Milo stood, arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t get to say something like that and expect me to believe it.”

“I’m serious, Milo. I’ve thought about it. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“Fair? Since when do we care about fair?” Milo’s voice cracked with disbelief. “You’re—what the hell, Darren? You were just talking about getting a place together last week—!”

“I changed my mind.”

“You don’t just change your mind like that unless you’re lying.”

Darren looked away. “I’m sorry.”

Milo stared at him like he didn’t even recognize him anymore. “Is it someone else?”

“No.” Darren’s throat burned. “It’s just me. It’s always been me.”

Milo stepped forward, eyes fierce. “Then let me help. Whatever it is, we—”

“I don’t want help!” Darren snapped, louder than he meant to. The silence after that was thick. Milo recoiled like he’d been slapped. Darren softened, eyes closing. “I just… I can’t keep pretending this is good for you.”

Milo didn’t say anything.

And that hurt more than yelling.

“I’m sorry,” Darren whispered, then walked out the door.

He didn’t look back.
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Milo didn’t move for a long time.

The room felt cold without Darren in it, like the warmth had gone with him. He stood there, arms folded tight across his chest, staring at the empty space where Darren had stood. Every instinct screamed that it didn’t make sense—Darren loved him. Darren needed him. And Milo needed him back in a way he didn’t have the words for.

But the words I don’t want help kept ringing in his head like a slap.

The front door stayed open longer than it should have. Milo finally shut it with a click, then sat down on the couch, blank-eyed, heart beating too loud in his ears. He didn’t even notice when Asher walked in.

“Hey, you guys want Thai or—”

Asher cut off. Took one look at Milo and went still.

“…Where’s Darren?”

Milo didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, knuckles white against his thighs.

Asher walked in slowly. “Milo?”

“He broke up with me.”

Asher’s brows shot up. “What?”

“Said it wasn’t working. Said he didn’t want help. Like he’d rehearsed it.” Milo’s voice was hoarse, like he’d smoked a pack too fast. “He didn’t even fight me on it. Just… walked out.”

The shock gave way to something colder in Asher’s face. He dropped onto the armrest beside Milo, hand resting between his shoulder blades. “That doesn’t sound like Darren.”

“No shit.” Milo blinked hard. “I don’t know what’s going on, Ash. But something’s not right. He was fine last week. We were talking about getting a place—he kissed me goodbye this morning like it meant something.”

Asher chewed his lip. “You think someone said something? I’ve seen Christian being a dick lately, but Darren didn’t tell me it was worse.”

Milo let out a bitter laugh. “Because he wouldn’t. That’s the thing. He never lets us in. Not really. He always flinches like he’s waiting for the floor to give out.”

Asher stood abruptly. “I’m telling David. I don’t care if Darren didn’t ask—this isn’t normal. Something’s driving him into a corner, and I swear if it’s those assholes again—”

“Wait,” Milo said, looking up. “You don’t think he’d… leave, do you?”

Asher paused.

“I think if Darren thought we were better off without him,” Asher said carefully, “he’d disappear before we could stop him.”
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David Shaw never shouted. He didn’t need to. Alpha presence had a way of humming under his skin like a storm warning. When Asher and Milo came to him that night—angry, scared, and with no idea where Darren had gone—David listened in silence. But the way his eyes darkened, the way his jaw ticked and fists clenched on the desk, told them everything.

“He’s not answering his phone,” Milo muttered. “Not just me—Asher, Babe, even Angel tried. Nothing.”

“So far I can’t even track his scent,” David said. “And if he’s masking it…”

“That means he doesn’t want to be found,” Asher finished, fists in his hoodie pockets.

David stood, pacing. “I knew he was pulling back. He’s been quiet for weeks. But I thought he was just adjusting to being back in the pack—not spiraling like this.”

“You think Christian and Amanda had something to do with it?”

David didn’t answer immediately. “I think Darren has a habit of blaming himself for everything that’s ever happened to him. And people like them know how to press on bruises they didn’t cause.”

“Then why didn’t he say something?” Milo’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t he let me in?”

“Because he loves you,” David said quietly. “And Darren… Darren doesn’t think love makes him worthy. He thinks it makes you vulnerable.”

There was a long silence.

Then Asher cursed under his breath. “Do we know where he might’ve gone?”

“No. But if I know Darren, he didn’t run to a friend. He probably went where he could disappear. No ties. No pack bond pressure. Somewhere no one’s looking.”

“Then we look,” Milo said, standing. “We look until we find him.”

David shook his head. “Not yet. If we chase now, it’ll drive him deeper. He needs to feel safe again—to believe we want him back for him, not out of pity. We stay ready. We keep our eyes open. But we wait for a crack.”

Milo looked like he wanted to punch something. “What if there isn’t a crack?”

“There will be,” David said. “Because love like that doesn’t disappear. And Darren can try to hide from it, but sooner or later… it’ll pull him back.”
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Dahlia hadn’t changed much.

Same lazy golden sunsets bleeding into the ocean. Same storefronts with their crooked lettering and sun-faded signs. Same scent of salt air and blooming jasmine carried on the breeze. But to Darren Lancer, it felt like stepping into a ghost town.

Because Dahlia wasn’t a place. It was a memory. A wound with a heartbeat.

He kept his head down as he walked the familiar streets, hood up, hands in his pockets. The heavy leather jacket hid the worst of the scarring that trailed from his collarbone down his side—the souvenirs of jobs gone wrong and cities that hadn’t offered the peace he was chasing.

Coming back had been a last resort. Not because he missed it—he did, achingly—but because everywhere else had hollowed him out until even the echo of pack felt like salvation. He didn’t expect a warm welcome. He didn’t expect anything.

He just wanted to breathe again.

Darren had barely set his duffel down when the knock came.

He froze. Stood there in the half-empty living room of the apartment he’d rented on the outskirts of Dahlia, surrounded by old ghosts and chipped paint. The place was quiet. Blank. Just the way he liked it. No scent of anyone else. No laughter echoing from another room. No reminders.

Except that knock.

Three firm raps.

Not the landlord. Not a neighbor.

Only one person knocked like that.

Darren opened the door.

And there stood Asher Talbot—grinning, wind-tousled, arms crossed, and smelling like sunshine and spearmint gum.

“Well, well, well,” Asher said, eyes raking over him with a mix of disbelief and something unspoken. “Look who’s back from the dead.”

Darren didn’t have time to speak before Asher surged forward and wrapped him in a tight, unrelenting hug.

“You asshole,” Asher muttered into his shoulder. “I should deck you. I should scream. But all I can do is hug you.”

Darren stood stiff for a heartbeat. Then his arms slowly lifted—awkward, unsure—before settling around Asher’s back. The hug pulled a breath from him he didn’t know he was holding.

“I didn’t think anyone would want to see me,” Darren murmured.

Asher pulled back just far enough to look at him. “Darren, you’re the one who went ghost. Not the other way around. You think I wouldn’t drop everything the second I caught wind you were back?”

His eyes scanned Darren’s face then, taking in the changes—new scars, deeper shadows under his eyes, the quiet set of his jaw. A moment of real emotion flickered across Asher’s features, quickly masked by something lighter.

“So?” Asher said, already stepping inside uninvited. “You unpacked yet?”

Darren blinked. “I… just got here.”

“Perfect.” Asher spun on his heel. “Then you have no plans. Come out with me.”

“I—what?”

“To the bar. Rustwood. You remember it. You, me, a couple drinks, maybe some pool if you still know how to hold a cue. You can even scowl in the corner like old times.”

Darren stared at him. “Asher…”

“Don’t ‘Asher’ me. You owe me. You owe me, Darren Lancer. You disappeared for four years. No goodbye, no explanation, just poof. You can at least humor me for one night.”

Darren opened his mouth to object—then stopped.

Because Asher looked stubborn. Not angry, exactly. But desperate. Like he was relieved Darren was back and wasn’t going to let him slip away again.

“…Fine,” Darren said at last. “But I’m not staying long.”

Asher’s grin exploded. “Atta boy.”
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Rustwood was just like Darren remembered. Low ceilings. Dusty lighting. The same carved initials in the wooden bar rail. He could almost smell the ghosts of memories—nights with Milo, late pool games with Asher, pack celebrations that bled into howling runs under the moon.

He slipped into a booth near the back, still dragging the shadows of silence behind him.

Asher plopped across from him, already two drinks in. “You look like you just escaped from a haunted forest.”

“I kind of did.”

“You always had a flair for the dramatic.”

“Don’t make me leave.”

“You won’t leave.” Asher handed him a drink. “Because I’ll guilt you for the rest of your life.”

Darren took it with a faint huff, barely a smile. They drank in silence for a minute, the low music and chatter around them cushioning the awkward weight between their words.

“Are you okay?” Asher asked finally, quietly.

Darren looked down. “Not really.”

Asher nodded. “I figured.”

“But I’m here. That’s gotta mean something.”

“It means everything, man.”

Darren’s fingers tightened around his glass. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“You did,” Asher said, not unkindly. “You hurt me. You hurt Milo.”

That name landed like a dropped match. Darren didn’t answer.

Asher sighed. “He never got over it, you know. Said he didn’t want to talk about you, but every time we passed a city you might’ve gone to, he’d go quiet. Pick fights. Ask around if anyone knew you or where you went.”

Darren stared into his glass.

“I couldn’t call him,” he said. “Couldn’t face any of you.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought you’d be better off.”

Asher scoffed. “Better off without a member of our pack? Better off wondering if you were dead in a ditch? Milo thought you hated him.”

“I didn’t,” Darren said, voice rough. “I loved him too much. I couldn’t… I couldn’t drag him down with me. Not after what Christian and Amanda said. After what they—”

“Fuck them,” Asher snapped. “You let those two assholes drive you away? They’re still the same petty creeps, Darren, but they don’t speak for the pack. Not for me. Not for Milo. Not for David.”

That name made Darren flinch slightly. He didn’t know what hurt more—hearing it or realizing how badly he missed it.

Asher went on, softer now. “David would want to see you too. He never stopped asking.”

Darren hesitated. “I don’t know if I can fix what I broke.”

“You can start,” Asher said. “You came back. That’s step one.”

They sat in silence again, the kind that didn’t press too hard.

Then Asher’s phone buzzed. He checked it, frowned. “…Damn it.”

Darren looked up. “What is it?”

“David,” Asher muttered. “Says he needs help with some bullshit at the pack house. Something about the generator shorting out again and Christian refusing to help unless someone bribes him.”

Darren raised an eyebrow. “That sounds fake.”

“It probably is fake,” Asher groaned. “He’s just trying to drag me into pack drama. I don’t wanna leave.”

“You should go.”

Asher stared at him. “Seriously?”

“I’ll be fine,” Darren said. “I’ll have a few more drinks, and then I’ll head out. I just need a little time to think.”

Asher studied him, searching for cracks. “You promise you won’t ghost me again?”

“I promise.”

Asher stood slowly. “Alright. But if you vanish again, I will hunt you down.”

Darren gave him a faint, lopsided smirk. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

And just like that, Asher clapped him on the shoulder and left, still muttering about David and how annoying pack life could be.

Darren stayed.

And the silence returned.

He nursed his drink, then another. He didn’t go for hard liquor—just beers, the kind he used to sip on the porch while Milo leaned into his side, laughing at something dumb Asher had said.

God. Milo.

It was easier not to think about him, but the memories came anyway. His laugh, his warmth, the way he used to tease Darren until he blushed—and then kiss him like they had all the time in the world.

Darren swallowed another mouthful and looked down at the condensation sliding down his glass.

He had been so stupid. So scared. Letting people like Christian and Amanda dictate what he deserved, what he was allowed to have. Believing them when they said someone like Milo would be better off with anyone else. That he was just a “Squeaker”—small, soft-voiced, wrong.

But Milo had loved him.

And Darren had loved him back.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, leaned back in the booth, and let the ache bloom behind his ribs.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to fix things yet. Maybe Milo wouldn’t want to see him. But sitting here, with the ghosts and the old songs and the taste of beer on his tongue, Darren realized something he couldn’t ignore:

He missed being loved.

And for the first time in years, he wanted to fight for it.

Chapter Text

The knock came at nearly 3 AM.

It was the kind of knock that rang too loudly in the silence of the early morning—a frantic rhythm that made Milo jolt upright on the couch, his heart thudding in his chest like a drumline.

He rubbed his face and shuffled to the door, still half-asleep, bleary-eyed and in nothing but an old t-shirt and sweats. Whoever this was, they better have a damn good reason.

The second the door opened, he froze.

A stranger stood there—mid-twenties, slightly flushed, eyes nervous—and slumped in his arms like a sack of flour was Darren.

Milo’s stomach dropped clean through the floor.

“Uh—sorry,” the guy said, breathless. “He was at the bar downtown, looked like he was about to pass out. I asked for his name and address and he just kept mumbling ‘Milo.’ Then he gave this address. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Milo blinked, mind scrambling to make sense of it. Darren. Darren was here. In Dahlia. Wasted, of all things, and calling out his name.

He stepped forward without thinking. “Thank you. I’ve got him.”

“Yeah—of course,” the guy said, clearly relieved to be passing over the responsibility. “Hope he’s okay, man.”

Milo didn’t answer. His entire focus was on Darren’s slumped form. The man was burning up, forehead damp with sweat, face flushed and slack. There was a faint tremble in his limbs. He looked exhausted. Gaunt, even.

Lighter.

Has he been eating at all? Milo’s jaw tensed.

He reached for Darren carefully, one arm around his back, the other behind his knees. Darren mumbled something incoherent as Milo pulled him against his chest.

“You’ve done this before,” the stranger muttered.

Milo didn’t reply. He just nodded stiffly and nudged the door shut with his foot.

Inside, the warmth hit Darren’s flushed skin, and he groaned, half-conscious.

“I’ve got you,” Milo murmured, gently laying him on the couch for a moment. He ran a towel over Darren’s face, dabbing off the sweat. Darren’s jacket was far too warm for him—Milo peeled it off slowly, careful with the man’s arms. He caught sight of old scars peeking out from beneath Darren’s shirt sleeve. Faded, but unmistakable.

Milo’s heart ached.

He carried Darren to the bed—his bed, since there was no way he’d let him crumple on the couch all night in this state. Darren didn’t stir much, just buried his face in Milo’s shoulder with a soft, pained sound.

“Still warm,” Milo muttered to himself, adjusting the blankets. “Damn it, Darren…”

He sat beside him for a long while after, just watching. The man he once loved—still loved, in truth—was back in his house, unexpectedly, heartbreakingly.

And then, like a broken prayer slipping from drunken lips, Darren murmured:

“…Milo…”

Milo startled. Darren’s brows were drawn together even in sleep, lips slack but moving. His voice was thick with drink and sorrow.

“…love you… I’m so sorry… so… sorry, Milo…”

The ache in Milo’s chest swelled into something unbearable.

He blinked, staring at Darren’s sweat-damp hair, his gaunt cheeks, the faint twitch of his fingers. It was too much. Too much time lost, too many questions left unanswered. Too many nights Milo spent wondering what he did wrong—why Darren had walked away without a word.

Hearing that now… those muttered apologies…

Milo reached out with trembling fingers and gently brushed Darren’s hair back. Darren melted into the touch, his expression softening just a little.

“You idiot,” Milo whispered, eyes burning. “You absolute idiot. Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

He traced his fingers through Darren’s hair again, more slowly this time, letting his touch be as gentle as the emotion rising in his throat.

He didn’t want to hope. Hope had hurt him before.

But he couldn’t help it—not when Darren said his name like that. Not when he apologized, like he’d been carrying guilt like a stone in his chest all these years. Not when his first instinct, even drunk out of his mind, was to call for Milo.

Milo leaned down, resting his forehead against Darren’s for just a moment. His scent was just the same.

“I missed you, you stubborn bastard,” he whispered.

He got up reluctantly, pulled the blanket higher around Darren’s shoulders, and padded back out into the living room. He could sleep on the couch. He wasn’t about to force anything.

But as he laid there staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady sound of Darren’s breath from the other room, Milo let himself feel the flicker of something he hadn’t dared to in years.

Hope.
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Darren woke up to sunlight slicing through unfamiliar curtains and a dull, insistent pounding in his head.

He groaned softly, arm flopping over his eyes. His mouth felt like sandpaper. His stomach was twisted in uneasy knots, and he could still taste beer and regret.

But the bed was... really comfortable. Too comfortable. And the room was too quiet.

His brow furrowed.

This wasn’t his bed. The blanket was softer. The scent clinging to the sheets was warm and familiar in a way that hurt.

His heart skipped a beat.

It smelled like pine and sandalwood. Like safety. Like memory.

It smelled like Milo.

Darren sat bolt upright.

The room came into focus slowly—he blinked against the light, trying to make sense of the pale walls, the faintly humming fan, the bookshelf across the room with small trinkets he vaguely remembered from years ago. A jacket draped over the back of a chair.

He swallowed hard.

This is Milo’s house.

Panic gripped his chest like a vice.

Oh, no. No, no, no—

Bits of the night returned in hazy flashes. The bar. Drinking too much. That ache in his chest, the way it all came pouring out. Talking to someone—what had he even said?

And then…

Oh gods.

Milo.

Darren shoved his face into his hands, heat blooming in his cheeks. He must’ve said something. Done something. His scent would’ve been all over him. Milo had to have touched him. Held him.

The thought made his stomach twist with something raw and desperate.

He couldn’t stay. He shouldn’t have stayed.

His boots. Where were his boots?

Downstairs. Shit.

He scanned the room—no chance of escaping through the window, not without drawing attention. His hands trembled slightly as he pushed back the covers and stood. The floor felt like it might drop out beneath him at any second.

He tiptoed out, every creak of the floorboard making his pulse jump.

Milo was asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. There was a blanket half-haphazardly tossed over him.

Darren stopped in the doorway, his heart catching in his throat.

He looked… peaceful. Tired. Like he hadn’t slept well in a while. Darren felt a sharp twist of guilt that Milo had given up his bed for him—after everything, he was the one passed out in Milo’s room while Milo slept out here, probably worried sick.

He didn’t deserve this kindness. Not from him.

Darren reached for the doorknob, boots in one hand. He could disappear now before Milo woke. Avoid the shame. The confrontation.

“Don’t.”

The voice was soft, groggy, and it stopped Darren in his tracks like a thunderclap.

Milo was awake. Sitting up now, blanket sliding to his waist, eyes heavy but locked on Darren.

“Don’t leave. Not before we talk.”

Darren closed his eyes, breath shallow.

“I—I shouldn’t have come,” he mumbled. “It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

“Darren,” Milo said, firmer now. “Don’t do that. Don’t just run. Please.”

Darren shook his head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Yes there is.”

“No there isn’t,” Darren snapped, suddenly too loud in the quiet house. “It was years ago. I’m fine. You’re fine. Let’s just leave it alone—”

“Why did you leave?”

Darren flinched. Milo stood slowly, like he was trying not to spook him.

“Was it something I did?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Did I mess up? Was I not good enough? Did you… did you fall for someone else?”

Darren’s stomach dropped.

“No! No, of course not. I—” He rubbed his face, frustration bubbling to the surface. “God, Milo, I’ve only ever loved you.”

Milo’s breath hitched. “Then why? Why break it off if you still loved me?”

“Because I can’t be with you!” Darren’s voice cracked, pain bleeding through the words. “Because I’m not good enough for you!”

Silence rang out between them like an echoing bell.

Darren turned, half-expecting Milo to laugh, to scoff, to agree.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Milo stepped forward.

“Say that again.”

Darren blinked.

“Say it again,” Milo said, sharper this time, “and I swear I’ll make you listen to how wrong you are.”

“You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!” Milo snapped, exasperated. “Tell me, Darren! Tell me why the hell you left without a word! Why you left me grieving a breakup I never saw coming! If it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t someone else—then what?! What excuse is good enough to throw us away?”

Darren backed up until his shoulders hit the wall. Milo kept coming, fierce and furious, looking up at him with that same wild determination he always had.

“Tell me why,” Milo demanded, breath hot. “And don’t lie to me. I’m not scared of the truth.”

Darren’s shoulders sagged.

“…Because I heard what they said about me.”

Milo froze.

Darren stared at the floor. “Christian. Amanda. The others. The way they talked behind my back. How they said I was just… weak. Scarred. A screw-up. How you could do better. That I was just the ‘squeaker’—someone’s used trash. Someone Quinn got bored of.”

Milo’s fists clenched at his sides.

“I couldn’t let you deal with that,” Darren continued, voice low. “I couldn’t be that for you. The burden. The joke. So I left. I figured you’d forget about me and find someone who deserved you.”

Milo stared at him in stunned silence. His chest rose and fell with restrained emotion.

Then, quietly: “You idiot.”

Darren blinked. “Wha—”

“You complete idiot,” Milo said, stepping forward and grabbing Darren’s shirt in both hands. “You think any of that bullshit matters? You think they get to define who you are?”

He shoved Darren back against the wall—not roughly, but with enough force to shake the air out of his lungs.

“You’re not leftovers. You’re not a joke. You are—Darren, you are everything.”

Darren was speechless. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

“You’re kind,” Milo continued, voice trembling now. “You’re thoughtful. You put everyone else ahead of yourself. You’re so fucking brave, and you never ask for anything in return. Don’t you dare stand there and tell me you don’t deserve to be loved.”

Darren’s eyes were wide, stunned.

Milo’s chest heaved with emotion. He was shaking, from fury or heartbreak or both.

“I don’t care what they said,” he whispered. “I care about you. So tell me. After all this time… how do you feel about me?”

Darren turned his face away, shame creeping back in like a wave. “I still love you,” he whispered. “But I don’t deserve you. Not after everything I—”

Milo didn’t let him finish.

He surged forward, grabbing Darren’s waist, and kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate.

Milo kissed him like he was reclaiming him. Like every second without Darren had been a slow kind of bleeding.

Darren made a small, broken sound—half-gasp, half-sob—as he melted into the kiss. His arms wrapped around Milo instinctively, clinging like he might fall apart otherwise.

When they pulled apart, breathless and shaking, Milo didn’t let go.

“I’m not getting over you,” he whispered against Darren’s lips. “Not in this life. Not in any life.”

Darren blinked, stunned, his heart pounding against his ribs like a drum.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

All he could do was hold Milo tighter.

And hope—just maybe—that he was allowed to keep him.

The kiss had left Darren breathless, dizzy with the rush of too many emotions hitting him all at once. Relief. Shame. Longing. Love. Stillness hung in the room for a moment—quiet but thrumming with everything unspoken. Milo didn’t move from where he held him, arms still snug around Darren’s waist, his forehead resting gently against Darren’s scarred temple.

“I mean it,” Milo murmured, voice low but firm. “You’re not allowed to run anymore.”

Darren blinked, his lashes brushing against Milo’s cheek. “What?”

“You heard me,” Milo said, pulling back just enough to look him dead in the eye. “No more sneaking out in the morning. No more ‘I’m doing this for your own good’ crap. No more decisions made in the dark without me.”

Darren opened his mouth to argue—but nothing came out.

Milo’s expression softened, but only slightly. “You don’t get to just take yourself away like that. Not when we’re in this together.”

“I…” Darren’s voice cracked, his protest dying on his tongue. He swallowed hard. “Okay. I won’t. I promise.”

“And we’re telling David,” Milo added, not missing a beat.

Darren tensed. “Milo…”

“No,” Milo said, more forcefully now. “I’m not letting them keep doing this to you. Christian and Amanda have been getting away with it for years, and it’s gonna stop. You don’t have to protect them. You shouldn’t have to.”

Darren hesitated, hands tightening slightly on Milo’s shirt. His gaze dropped, shame crawling back in like a shadow.

“They’ll hate me for it.”

“Let them,” Milo said, shrugging. “I’ll be right there beside you.”

Darren met his eyes, something fragile and awestruck flickering behind his lashes. He nodded slowly, barely perceptible. “Okay.”

Milo’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

“And for the record,” he said, fingers sliding down to rest at Darren’s waist, “you’ve always been mine. Always. I don’t care what anyone else says.”

Darren let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “You’re so damn possessive.”

“Damn right I am,” Milo said smugly. “You think I’m gonna let the love of my life walk away twice?”

Darren flushed at the words. His lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile. “You really are a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

There was a moment of silence, thick with meaning, before Milo said it.

“I love you, Darren.”

It came out so naturally, like it had never stopped being true. Like it had always been sitting on the tip of his tongue, waiting for the right time.

Darren’s breath caught.

He looked at Milo for a long moment. All the years, all the pain, all the self-loathing… none of it had driven that love away. Somehow, impossibly, it had stayed.

“I love you too,” Darren whispered.

Milo smiled, wide and warm and victorious, like that sentence was the only prize he’d ever wanted.

He tugged Darren toward the couch without warning.

“What are you—hey—!”

“Couch cuddles,” Milo declared, flopping back and pulling Darren down with him. “I’ve got about three years of missed cuddling to make up for. So shut up and let me.”

Darren grumbled half-heartedly, but let himself be dragged down. He landed awkwardly, half on top of Milo, limbs tangled. Milo adjusted easily, pulling him close, tucking Darren under his chin like he belonged there.

He did.

“You’re ridiculous,” Darren muttered, though he didn’t move away.

“You love it,” Milo replied smugly, curling around him tighter.

Darren couldn’t deny it. Not with the way his body had already relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders as Milo rubbed slow, soothing circles into his back. The scent of him—comforting and grounding—wrapped around Darren like a blanket.

“You really never stopped loving me?” Darren asked softly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Not for a second,” Milo said. “And I’m not going to start now.”

Darren closed his eyes. The ache in his chest eased, just a little.

Maybe he didn’t have to keep punishing himself.

Maybe—just maybe—he deserved to be held like this.

He buried his face in the crook of Milo’s neck, breathing in the scent he’d missed for so long.

“...I missed you,” he whispered.

Milo kissed the top of his head. “I missed you more.”

And for the first time in years, Darren believed it.