CHAPTER 5

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 giant was sitting in the shadows.

Jax had found him. It hadn't been hard once he knew which building to watch. He had spent the last three days learning Milo’s life like it was a sacred text. He knew Milo took the 8:15 AM bus. He knew he liked his coffee with too much cream and exactly two sugars. He knew Milo spent his lunch hour in the most secluded corner of the botanical garden, eating a ham sandwich his mother had clearly packed with love.

Jax watched the back of Milo’s head. From this angle, he could see the soft, downy hair at the nape of his neck and the way his small ears turned pink when the professor called on him. Jax’s hands, resting on his muscular thighs, twitched with a restless energy. He felt like a lion watching a butterfly—fascinated by the fragility, terrified that one wrong move would crush it.

Later that afternoon, the indirect interaction Jax had been craving finally manifested.

Milo was walking toward the bus stop, his arms full of heavy reference books. The wind was picking up, whipping his fluffy brown hair across his eyes. He looked particularly porcelain today in a soft lavender sweater that he had tucked into high-waisted corduroys—a rare moment of self-expression that emphasized the wide, soft curve of his hips and the bouncy shape of his rear.

Jax, trailing twenty paces behind while pretending to check his phone, felt a low, dangerous thrum in his chest. He wasn't the only one watching.

A group of guys from the rugby team were leaning against a brick wall, watching Milo approach. Jax saw the way their eyes raked over Milo’s curves. He saw the leader—a thick-necked guy named Thorne—nudge his friend and point at the way Milo’s trousers hugged his hips.

"Look at that view," Thorne whispered, loud enough for the wind to carry it. "You sure that's a dude? I bet he's softer than a girl."

Milo’s shoulders hunched. He walked faster, his face burning a bright, humiliated red. He tripped slightly on an uneven paving stone, his books wobbling precariously.

Thorne stepped out, intending to block Milo’s path, a cruel smirk on his face. "Hey, pretty thing. Why the rush? You dropped something."

Thorne reached out to grab Milo’s arm—but he never made contact.

A heavy, calloused hand clamped onto Thorne’s shoulder from behind. It wasn't a friendly pat. It was a vice-grip that promised broken bone if he moved.

Thorne spun around, ready to fight, but the words died in his throat. He was looking up—way up—at Jax. Jax wasn't wearing his biker leather; he was in a dark denim jacket, his face a mask of cold, terrifying indifference. But his eyes… his eyes were predatory.

"He’s busy," Jax rumbled, his voice so low it was almost a vibration. "And you’re leaving."

"I—I didn't—" Thorne stuttered, the bravado vanishing instantly. He recognized Jax. Everyone knew the Vance heir, the guy who rode the black Harley and looked like he could bench-press a mid-sized sedan.

"Go," Jax commanded.

Thorne and his friends scrambled away without a second glance.

Milo, who had stopped a few feet away to readjust his books, turned around just as the bullies fled. He blinked, his vision still slightly off because he was wearing an old, weaker pair of backup glasses. He saw a tall figure standing where the bullies had been.

"Um… thank you?" Milo squeaked, his voice small and melodic.

Jax froze. He was close enough to smell the vanilla-scented laundry detergent on Milo’s sweater. He wanted to speak. He wanted to tell him his name. But the "Rich Heir" voice in his head—his father’s voice—reminded him of the gala, the suits, and the "arrangements" being made for him. If he stepped into Milo’s light, he would bring the darkness of his world with him.

Jax simply nodded once—a sharp, regal movement—and turned on his heel, disappearing into the crowd of students before Milo could get a good look at his face.

That evening, Milo sat at his vanity, brushing his fluffy hair. He felt a strange warmth in his chest. Twice now, a "shadow" had saved him.

"Did you have a good day, Milo?" his mother asked, leaning into his room.

"I did, Mom," Milo smiled, though his mind was elsewhere. "I think… I think I have a guardian angel."

Across town, Jax was back in his "cage." He stood on the balcony of his father’s estate, looking out toward the university. He pulled the spare sunglasses from his pocket—the ones he had meant to give back to Milo but couldn't bring himself to return. They were the only link he had.

He didn't know that in his father's study, a folder was lying on the desk. It contained two photographs. One was of Jax, looking grim in a suit. The other was of a beautiful, sharp-featured girl—Elena, Milo’s twin sister.

The trap was being set. The Worst was looming on the horizon, invisible to them both. Jax was becoming obsessed with the brother, while his father was signing his life away to the sister.

Jax gripped the railing of the balcony until his knuckles turned white. He didn't care about "alliances." He didn't care about legacy. All he could think about was the way Milo’s hips swayed when he walked and the way he looked like he was made of porcelain and dreams.

He was going to keep watching. He was going to keep stalking. Because in a world that wanted to break things as soft as Milo, Jax was the only thing strong enough to keep him whole.