GLIDED CAGE

The sun didn’t rise for Milo; it merely suggested itself through the sheer, cream-colored curtains of his bedroom.Milo sat at the edge of his bed, his toes curling into the plush white rug. He looked down at himself, a sight that usually brought a flush of heat to his cheeks. Even in a simple oversized sleep shirt, he couldn't hide the way his body was built. His skin was pale, almost translucent like fine bone china, and beneath the fabric, his hips flared into soft, wide curves that felt entirely too feminine for a boy of nineteen. His "feminine" face stared back at him from the vanity mirror—big, doe-like brown eyes framed by lashes that were too long, and hair that was a chocolate-colored mess of fluffy, bouncy curls.He reached for a binder, then hesitated. His parents hated when he constricted himself. "You’re perfect as you are, Milo," his mother would say, kissing his forehead. But his mother didn't see the way the boys at the university looked at him. They didn't see the way

The world was a smear of grey stone and cruel laughter. Without his glasses, Milo felt untethered, floating in a sea of predatory shapes. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed the cold, damp grass, searching for the frames that allowed him to navigate a world that already felt too sharp for him."Looking for these, Princess?" Miller’s voice was right above him. Milo heard the distinct crunch of a boot heel pressing into plastic and glass.Milo’s heart stuttered. A sob caught in his throat, making his chest heave, the movement straining the fabric of his oversized hoodie. "Why?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "I didn't do anything to you.""You exist," Miller sneered, reaching down to grab a fistful of Milo’s fluffy brown hair. "You walk around here with those hips and that face, looking like you’re waiting for someone to—""Let go of him."The voice didn't sound human. It sounded like the tectonic plates of the earth shifting. It was a low, guttural vibration that M

The week that followed was the strangest of Milo’s life. He couldn't shake the feeling that the air behind him was always just a few degrees warmer than it should be, or that the shadows in the corner of his eye were more solid than they had any right to be.He had gone back to his routine—head down, oversized hoodie pulled low, heart hammering against his ribs every time a group of boisterous students walked past. But something had changed. The world felt… cushioned.Milo sat in the back of his Advanced Literature class, his fingers nervously tracing the spine of a worn copy of The Iliad. He was thinking about the Shadow. Since that day in the park, the bullies had been strangely absent. Miller hadn't cornered him at his locker. The girls who usually snickered at his feminine walk were suddenly preoccupied when he passed. It was as if a silent decree had been issued across the campus: Milo is off-limits.He didn't know that three rows back, in the very last seat near the door, a gian

The sunglasses felt like a heavy secret in the front pocket of Milo’s backpack.For the last three days, Milo had been a different person. He didn't just trudge to class; he scanned the horizon. Every time the distant roar of an engine echoed through the campus, his heart did a frantic, clumsy somersault against his ribs. He had spent hours in front of his mirror, touching the place on his waist where his hands had gripped the biker’s leather jacket. He could still feel the vibration of the Harley in his bones—a steady, powerful thrum that made him feel, for the first time, like he wasn't just a "porcelain doll" waiting to be broken."You're doing it again," Liam whispered, nudging Milo in the university cafeteria.Milo jumped, his face flushing a brilliant shade of pink that made his white skin glow. "Doing what?""The 'Daydreaming about the Mystery Knight' look. You’ve been staring at that apple for ten minutes, Milo. It’s not going to turn into a motorcycle."Milo ducked his head,

The dinner table had become a battlefield of unspoken desires and suffocating secrets. Every time Milo’s fork clattered against the fine china, the sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence. He could feel Jax’s gaze—heavy, hot, and unrelenting—tracing the line of his throat, the curve of his shoulder, and the way the fitted cream suit hugged his wide hips.Milo felt like he was being devoured without a single touch."To the future," Milo’s father announced, standing up and raising a crystal glass of deep red wine. The light from the chandelier caught the liquid, making it look like pooling blood. "To the union of the Vance and Sinclair-Wellesley legacies. To Jackson and Elena."The words hit Milo like a physical blow to the stomach. He felt the air leave his lungs. He looked at Elena, who sat perfectly still, her face a mask of neutral compliance. Then, he looked at Jax.Jax didn't pick up his glass. His massive hands remained flat on the table, the knuckles white. His eyes nev