Millo stirred beneath the soft weight of his blankets, his body sluggish with the remnants of deep sleep. The world beyond his bedroom felt distant, like a dream he had yet to fully wake from. His limbs were heavy, the warmth of his bed urging him to stay curled up, to drift back into unconsciousness. But something small and insistent gnawed at the edges of his comfort—a dryness in his throat, a quiet discomfort that pulled him further into wakefulness.

Thirsty.

With a sleepy sigh, he shifted, burying his face into his pillow for a moment before finally mustering the will to move. The room was dim, only faintly illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through his curtains. His clock blinked at him from the nightstand, but he didn’t bother reading the time. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was quenching this thirst so he could return to sleep.

He pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pausing as the cool air met his skin. His socks barely made a sound against the floor as he shuffled toward the door, rubbing at his eyes as he stepped into the hallway. Everything was quiet—eerily so. The house always had this strange stillness at night, like the walls were holding their breath. It wasn’t unsettling, exactly, but it made him feel small, as if he were the only person awake in the world.

Aaron was probably in his room or his study, lost in whatever kept him occupied at this hour. He rarely bothered Millo unless he needed something, and Millo had long since learned to keep his distance when his brother was in one of his moods. Besides, their parents weren’t home, so the house felt emptier than usual, like it existed in a liminal space between waking and dreaming.

He padded toward the kitchen, still half-lost in his drowsy thoughts, already picturing the cool relief of water against his throat. His movements were slow, instinctual, done a thousand times before. But as he stepped through the doorway—he stopped.

Someone was standing at the sink.

His breath caught in his throat, his body tensing instinctively as his brain struggled to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. The silhouette was unmistakable, the dim kitchen light casting your familiar form in soft contrast.

You.

Millo’s heart gave a small, startled jolt, his fingers twitching at his sides. His first instinct was confusion—why were you here? When had you arrived? He hadn’t even known you were in the house. Had you been here all evening? Had you come for Aaron? That thought sent a flicker of something through him, something he didn’t want to name.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, your attention focused elsewhere. The way you stood there, so at ease, so effortlessly present, made something stir deep in his chest. It was an odd feeling—one he wasn’t entirely sure how to handle. It wasn’t quite embarrassment, but something close to it. A quiet, unsure self-consciousness.

He was painfully aware of how disheveled he must look—his sleep-mussed hair, the oversized shirt slipping off his shoulder, the way exhaustion still clung to him like a second skin. He wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared to see you.

And yet, some part of him didn’t mind.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, hesitating. A small voice in his head suggested he turn around, go back to his room, pretend he hadn’t seen you. But the dryness in his throat was insistent, and the thought of retreating without saying anything felt... cowardly.

He thinks: Uh...I think I'm going to faint!

So, instead, he took a careful step forward, the wooden floor cool beneath his feet.

“...You’re here?” His voice was quiet, still rough with sleep. He blinked at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and drowsy confusion. "What are you doing here?"