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 they whispered about his "bouncy ass" or how they tried to corner him in the library just to see him cry.

He settled for his armor: a heavy, charcoal-colored hoodie three sizes too big and baggy cargo pants that he hoped would swallow the shape of his legs.

Downstairs, the house smelled of blueberry pancakes and expensive coffee.

"There’s my sunshine!" His father, a man of high standing and even higher warmth, looked up from his newspaper and beamed. "Sleep well, Milo?"

"Yes, Dad," Milo whispered, his voice soft and melodic, another trait the bullies loved to mock. He slid into his chair, and immediately, his mother was there, placing a plate of food in front of him and smoothing down his unruly curls.

"You look tired, honey. Are those boys bothering you again? I could call the Dean," she fretted, her eyes full of the fierce protection that kept Milo's world from falling apart.

"I'm fine, Mom. Really," Milo lied, picking at a pancake.

Across the table, Elena, his twin sister, didn't look up from her tablet. She was the mirror image of him, but where Milo was soft and curved, Elena was sharp and poised. They shared the same beautiful face, but she wore it like a weapon. She wasn't mean—she never joined in on the teasing—but she was a silent observer. She lived in a different world, one of high-fashion galas and the family business. To her, Milo was like a delicate antique her parents kept on a shelf.

"Elena, are you walking with your brother today?" their father asked.

"I have a meeting with the board's junior associates, Dad," Elena said, her tone neutral, devoid of any malice but also empty of warmth. "Milo can handle the bus."

Milo looked down. He hated the bus. The bus was where the laughing started.

Five miles away, the sun didn't suggest itself—it glared off the chrome of a customized Harley-Davidson.

Jax let out a low growl as his wrench slipped, his knuckles barking against the cold metal engine block. He didn't flinch. He just wiped the blood onto his oil-stained jeans, his dark eyes narrowed in focus. At 6'4", Jax was a titan of a man, his frame packed with dense, functional muscle that made him look more like a Greek statue than a college-aged heir.

"Boss, you're gonna kill that engine if you keep staring at it like it owes you money," a voice yelled over the sound of a nearby air compressor.

Jax looked up, his face an unreadable mask of handsome, rugged indifference. His "friends"—the pack of bikers and thrill-seekers who followed him like he was a dark sun—were lounging around the garage, drinking cheap energy drinks and bragging about their latest speeds. They were rough, loud, and dangerous, but to Jax, they were just background noise.

"It’s not sitting right," Jax said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that commanded instant silence. He stood up, towering over his second-in-command. A few tattoos peeked out from under the sleeves of his black t-shirt—sharp, geometric designs that ran down his forearms like armor.

"Your old man called the shop," the other guy said, his voice dropping. "Said something about a dinner tonight. Said you better be in a suit, not leather."

Jax’s jaw tightened. The Rich Heir side of his life was a cage he constantly tried to kick the bars out of. He was the golden boy of a tech empire, but he felt alive only when the wind was screaming past his helmet at a hundred miles per hour.

"I'll go when I'm ready," Jax snapped, grabbing a rag to wipe the grease from his large, calloused hands.

He felt a strange, gnawing boredom in his chest. He was tired of the girls who threw themselves at him because of his money, and he was tired of the guys who tried to prove their manhood by picking fights with him. He wanted something real. Something that didn't smell like perfume or gunpowder.

He hopped onto his bike, the engine roaring to life with a violent, chest-thumping vibration. He needed to ride. He needed to get away from the Heir and the Biker and just be Jax for an hour.

He didn't know that three blocks away, a small, soft-spoken boy with porcelain skin was currently being pushed into a locker, his books scattering across the floor like fallen leaves.

Milo standing at the edge of the campus parking lot, his eyes red from held-back tears after a particularly nasty encounter with the school's varsity wrestling team. He’s shaking, his oversized hoodie pulled tight around his wide hips.

And then, he hears it. A low, predatory growl.

A massive black motorcycle swerves into the lot, the rider looking like a god of war in black leather. Jax pulls his helmet off, his dark hair messy, his eyes scanning the crowd with boredom—until they land on the small, trembling figure by the lamp post.

Milo looks up, his big doe eyes meeting Jax's cold stare.

For the first time in his life, Jax feels the boredom vanish. And for the first time in his life, Milo feels a different kind of fear—the kind that makes your heart beat in your throat.