Page 26 of Dream Girl

He leaves his coffee to the side and watching the people walk past us. I shrug off his apathetic demeanor; it’s nothing new to me. He doesn’t like crowded places, and he’s willing to go through this torture for me. We’ll head home after I finish this drink and enjoy our time together.

“What present do you think Eddie likes?” I begin, sipping the hot chocolate while the marshmallow bumps into my top lip.

I lick the remnant of the sweetness off my lips, waiting for an answer from the stoic man beside me. When I don’t, I turn and see him looking into the distance. My brows curl in bewilderment and once again, I am searching for things that aren’t there with my own eyes, but I just see a bunch of people enjoying their Christmas night with the bright lights.

Laying a hand on top of his curled fist, he jerks and whips his head to mine. A presence of malevolence, almost vile energy comes from the listless expression being controlled by his aloof eyes.

Human instinct is to protect their injuries and what Milo does is putting his hand subtly over the right side of his healed scar, an action derived from the subconscious.

He blinks, and the unknown man that wears the face of my Milo is gone, leaving a faint figment of my loving boyfriend fighting his way back.

“What’s wrong?” he questions, twisting his body to face me.

I should be the one asking him about that. “Are you okay?”

“Why do you ask?” he returns the inquisitive questioning.

He’s dodging suspicion. I want him to be able to tell me if there is anything wrong, but he has this macho man syndrome that makes him believe that he can handle anything thrown at him by himself.

I feel like the military did more harm than good to him, but I’m not the one to judge that.

I use the same inquisitive line of questioning on him too, and neither of us is getting answers.

“Is your wound acting up again?”

He searches my face and ends up staring into my eyes. The colorful lights around trees light up the side of his face, turning the once dangerous man into a colorful, dangerous man. Milo has this distinctive threatening expression on his face, and it’s his facial structure that remains so symmetrical that he can be a character of seduction to lure in unsuspecting people to do bad things to them.

Everyone is wary of him.

“Please,” I beg him, eyes watching unknown emotions flash through his eyes.

His face doesn’t say much, but his eyes are expressive when he looks at me. He’s still doing it. He’s still trying to overcompensate on the fact that he doesn’t want to tell me what had happened overseas when he was in battle, but I have made sure that he understood that he didn’t need to work too hard in other departments.

Relationships are about patience, trial and error, and loving each other through thick and thin.

“Just a bit,” he answers after a moment.

The hot chocolate in my hand loses my interest as I set it down on my side, scooting closer to him and cupping the side of his cheek. It’s cold and unyielding with a sharpness to his jawline that becomes more prominent since a couple of days ago.

“Do you want to go home?” It’s a question I’ll always ask him.

He can tell me if he wants to return home if anything gets too overwhelming for him, but he doesn’t want to trouble me and let the happiness of this holiday be tainted with worrisome memories.

I love this man, but he is utterly ridiculous. Too sacrificial and too much of a martyr despite not being on the battlefield, but he’s in his own war every day—fighting his nightmares, keeping a hold on his sanity, and taking care of his body is a lot for one man.

He has me, and I feel like sometimes he treats me as if I’m fragile and that he would hurt me. One incident that has healed since and he approaches my neck like a wounded animal; his lips and teeth change from their usual, possessive marking to kittenish licks and nibbles.

“Please,” he whispers.

My eyes hone in on the slight tremors in his hand when he holds his side. Worry shoots up my spine; tightness at the bottom of my stomach is a bad omen as we stand to dispose of the drink. He didn’t take one sip, and I just finished only half with the marshmallow melting on the top.

His eyes are unfocused, eyebrows knotting to stare into space. Milo doesn’t look alright; his face is pale with a wash of ashen twist as an expression concerns me more than the uncoordinated sway of his body.

“Milo?” I hold his arm, steadying him as he almost takes a dive to the ground.

He grunts, breathing hard and hand threatening to break through the coat that I’m wearing. Milo finds his stance, breathing heavily and eyes clouded with a color of hollowness. He’s looking, but he’s not seeing as he turns to me.

“I’m alright,” he grunts, lips twitching with slight pressure as he sets his head on my shoulder.

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