CHAPTER 6: Where Hate Starts to Burn

(Takes place the night after Chapter 5. Milo hasn’t spoken all day. Win is spiraling, drunk, confused—and craving the one person he claims to hate)

The room was dark. Again.

The sun had set hours ago, casting shadows over the marble floors of the penthouse like creeping fingers. Milo hadn’t turned on the lights. He sat curled on the couch, wrapped in silence, the bruises under his shirt still pulsing like a second heartbeat.

He hadn’t eaten.

Win hadn’t spoken since this morning.

The shattered photo frame had been cleaned up by a maid who didn’t ask questions.

The silence between them was growing louder by the hour.

Milo’s head ached. His body was heavy. And his heart... his heart was beginning to feel numb.

He was getting used to the pain. That scared him more than anything.

The front door clicked.

His pulse jumped.

Heavy footsteps. A familiar scent. Expensive cologne and whiskey. Win.

He turned his head, watching quietly as Win walked in, coat slung over one shoulder, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, eyes unfocused. Drunk.

Again.

Win saw him and stopped. For a moment, he just stared.

Milo didn’t move. He kept his arms wrapped around his knees, small and quiet on the massive couch.

“You’re still awake,” Win said, voice low and rough.

Milo said nothing.

“Waiting for me?” Win stepped closer, tossing his coat on the floor. “How sweet.”

Milo’s voice was quiet. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Win stopped right in front of him, swaying slightly. His eyes dropped to Milo’s lips. Then his neck.

Then lower.

“You’re pretty when you’re quiet,” he muttered.

Milo’s fingers curled into the fabric of his own shirt.

“Too bad you weren’t quiet the night she died.”

Milo flinched.

Win noticed. He liked that reaction. He reached down and grabbed Milo’s chin, tilting it up to force their eyes to meet.

“You still won’t admit it, will you?”

“I didn’t kill her.”

Win’s jaw clenched. “Then why do I still see her blood every time I look at you?”

Milo’s eyes burned. “Because you want to.”

That pushed something.

In a flash, Win was on the couch, straddling him, caging him in. Milo gasped, hands caught between their bodies as Win leaned in—too close.

“You think I don’t know what game you’re playing?” Win whispered against his lips. “Acting innocent. Looking like her. Sounding like her. Pretending you didn’t enjoy the way I broke you that night.”

Milo’s voice cracked. “I didn’t—”

“You moaned for me,” Win growled, hand sliding down his throat. “You came for me.”

Milo shook his head, eyes wide, but Win didn’t give him the chance to speak. He crushed their mouths together in a bruising, desperate kiss—hungry and violent. Milo tried to turn away, but Win grabbed the back of his neck, forcing the kiss deeper, rougher.

He tasted like liquor and rage. Like grief that had soured into obsession.

Milo whimpered into his mouth, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes—but somewhere in the chaos, something in him stuttered.

Because for one second... just one... it didn’t feel like hate.

It felt like drowning.

Win pulled back slightly, breathing hard, his lips hovering just above Milo’s.

“Why do you taste different?” he whispered. “Why do you taste like her... but feel like sin?”

Milo blinked up at him, lips swollen, heart hammering.

“Because I’m not her,” he said. “And you know it.”

Win’s eyes darkened.

He dragged Milo down with him onto the couch, pinning him there, lips grazing his throat. “Then let me remind you,” he growled, “exactly what you are.”

Milo didn’t struggle this time.

Because he knew he’d lose.

Win’s hands roamed roughly—pulling, tearing, marking.

It wasn’t love.

It wasn’t even sex.

It was punishment with a heartbeat.

But somewhere, deep in the mess of breathless moans and tangled limbs, Milo felt something worse than pain.

He felt need.

When it was over, Milo lay beneath him, gasping for air, the couch stained with sweat and more. Win didn’t speak. He just stayed there, resting his head against Milo’s chest, eyes closed, body trembling.

Milo didn’t understand what was happening until he felt it.

Wetness.

Silent tears sliding down Win’s cheek.

Win was crying.

But not for him.

For Mimi.

Always her.

Milo turned his head away.

Because if he looked at him now—if he let himself believe, even for a second, that Win needed him—he might shatter completely.

To be continued...

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