"Please," the voice hissed, frantic and barely audible over the wind. "Just look at me like you actually like me."
Julian didn’t look up immediately. He finished chewing a salted pretzel, swallowed with deliberate slowness, and then turned his head. The boy—no, the young man—hovering over him was a mess of nervous energy. Wide eyes, hair that looked like it had been styled by a wind tunnel, and hands gripping the strap of a canvas messenger bag so hard the knuckles were white.
"Excuse me?" Julian said. His voice was deep, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the wooden slats of the bench.
"Sit down. Please. They’re looking." The boy didn’t wait for permission. He collapsed onto the empty space of the bench, sliding uncomfortably close. His thigh pressed against Julian’s, a sudden, intrusive line of heat against the damp denim of Julian’s jeans. "Oh god. They’re coming over. Laugh. Say something funny."
Julian stared at him. The park was grey, the sky a bruised purple that threatened more rain. It wasn't a day for comedy. He looked past the boy’s trembling shoulder to see a group of three people walking down the gravel path. They looked normal enough—loud, confident, the type of people who walked three-abreast and forced others into the mud. One of them, a guy in a varsity jacket that looked too expensive to be vintage, was scanning the crowd.
"The guy in the red?" Julian asked, keeping his face impassive.
The boy next to him flinched. "Don't point! Yes. Red jacket. That’s Kyle. If he sees me alone, he’s going to win. I can’t let him win. Not today."
Julian looked back at the pretzel in his hand. It was a cheap, vending machine bag, mostly air and salt. He looked at the boy. Milo—he’d decided to call him Milo, because he looked like a Milo, soft edges and frantic eyes—was vibrating. It wasn't just fear; it was a physical frequency of distress that made the air around him feel charged.
The logical thing to do was to get up. Julian valued his solitude. He had come to this specific bench, the one with the peeling green paint behind the rhododendrons, because it was usually invisible. He had a book in his pocket and a headache that required silence. He didn’t do drama. He didn’t do 'rescues'.
But the heat of the boy’s leg was searing. And there was something about the way the boy was holding his breath, as if his existence depended on Julian’s cooperation, that triggered an instinct Julian usually kept under heavy sedation.
The group in red was getting closer. The gravel crunched loudly.
"Okay," Julian said. He shifted, turning his body fully toward the intruder. He draped his arm along the back of the bench. It was a possessive gesture, boxing the boy in, claiming the space around him. The boy’s eyes went impossibly wide, the pupils blowing out, swallowing the iris.
"Okay?" the boy squeaked.
"You said look like I like you," Julian murmured, dropping his voice to a register that was intimate, almost intrusive. He reached out with his free hand—the one not holding the pretzels—and brushed a stray lock of hair from the boy’s forehead. The skin there was cold, clammy with sweat. "Is this convincing?"
The boy’s breath hitched, a sharp, audible intake of air. A flush started at his neck, a violent creeping red that moved up toward his ears. He looked like he’d been slapped, or kissed, or both. "I… uh. Yeah. Good. Very good."
"Talk to me," Julian commanded softly. The group was twenty feet away. "Don't look at them. Look at me. Tell me about the pretzels."
"The… what?"
"The pretzels. Are they your favorite? Do you hate them? Focus."
The boy’s eyes darted to the bag. He swallowed hard. "I… I hate pretzels. They make your mouth dry. Who eats dry carbs in a park? It’s like eating sand. You have terrible taste in snacks."
Julian smirked. It wasn't a fake smile. "Eating sand. Harsh."
"It's true!" The boy’s voice rose, cracking slightly, but he was locking eyes with Julian now, the panic momentarily eclipsed by the absurdity of the conversation. "You’re sitting here, looking all brooding and mysterious, eating processed salt twists. It ruins the aesthetic."
"I’ll keep that in mind," Julian said, leaning in closer. He could smell the boy now—something like citrus soap and stale coffee. It was a human smell. Grounded. "Next time, bring me something better."
The group in red walked past. Julian felt the moment the guy in the jacket noticed them. He saw the pause, the recognition, and then the look at Julian—at the broad shoulders, the dark coat, the arm protective and heavy behind the smaller boy. The guy in the red jacket scoffed, whispered something to the girl next to him, and they kept walking.
They walked until the crunch of their footsteps faded into the ambient noise of the city traffic bordering the park.
Silence descended on the bench. It was heavy, awkward, and electric.
Milo—Julian still didn't know his real name—slumped forward, putting his head in his hands. He let out a long, shaky groan that sounded like a deflating tire. The contact between their legs broke, and Julian felt the absence of that heat immediately. It was colder than it had been before.
"You can breathe now," Julian said, withdrawing his arm from the back of the bench. He didn’t move away, though. He folded the pretzel bag carefully, aligning the edges.
The boy lifted his head. He looked exhausted. The adrenaline crash was hitting him hard. "Thank you. I… I’m sorry. That was weird. I’m weird. You probably think I’m a stalker."
"I think you have enemies who wear terrible varsity jackets," Julian said dryly. "Who was he?"
"Kyle. Ex-best friend. Or… something. It’s complicated." The boy rubbed his face, smearing a bit of grime on his cheek. "He’s been telling everyone I’ve been a hermit since… since the incident. I just didn’t want him to be right. I wanted him to see me living. With people. Connected."
"So you grabbed a stranger," Julian stated.
"You looked… solid," the boy admitted, glancing sideways at him. The flush had faded to a soft pink on his cheekbones. "You looked like you wouldn’t move if a truck hit you. I needed an anchor."
"Solid," Julian repeated. He felt a strange satisfaction at the word. Not 'nice', not 'safe', but solid. "I’m Julian."
"Milo," the boy said. Julian mentally chalked up a win for his intuition. "I’m Milo. And I really, really owe you a coffee. Or a non-sand snack."
"You don't owe me anything." Julian looked out at the pond. The water was murky, brown and green, rippling under the light rain that was starting to fall again. A plastic bag floated near the edge, bobbing rhythmically. "I was bored."
"You were reading," Milo pointed out, gesturing to the book outline in Julian’s pocket. "I interrupted. I’m annoying. It’s my brand."
"You’re loud," Julian corrected. "Internally loud. You vibrate."
Milo laughed, a short, sharp sound that surprised them both. "I vibrate? What am I, a washing machine?"
"An unbalanced one," Julian said. He turned to face Milo fully. The rain was picking up, spotting Milo’s grey hoodie with dark circles. "Why were you hiding from him? Really?"
Milo picked at a loose thread on his jeans. The humor evaporated, replaced by a vulnerability that made Julian want to reach out again, just to shield it from the cold air. "Because he’s right. I am a hermit. I haven't spoken to anyone in three weeks. Not really. Just checkout clerks and my landlord. I come to the park to remember what people look like. It’s pathetic."
The confession hung in the air, wet and heavy. It was the kind of truth you only tell a stranger you’ll never see again.
Julian tightened his grip on the folded pretzel bag. He knew that feeling. The silence of an apartment that was too clean. The way the phone never rang, not because it was broken, but because you’d carefully pruned every connection until there was nothing left but peace and quiet. Suffocating quiet.
"I come here to avoid my phone," Julian said. It was his turn. A trade. "My family… they worry. They think I’m 'brooding'. They want me to date. They want me to bring someone to my sister's engagement dinner next week. I haven't been on a date in two years."
Milo looked at him, surprised. "You? But you’re… look at you. You have the whole 'dark romance novel hero' vibe going on. People love that."
"I don't like people," Julian said flatly. "I don't like the noise. The expectations. The way they want you to perform emotions you don't feel."
"But you just performed," Milo said softly. "With Kyle. You were… really good at it."
Julian paused. He had been good at it. It hadn't felt like a performance. When he’d touched Milo’s hair, it had felt tactile, necessary. Grounding.
"That was different," Julian said. "It was a tactical maneuver."
"Tactical intimacy," Milo mused. He shivered as a gust of wind cut through the trees. He wasn't dressed for this weather. His hoodie was thin, and his sneakers were canvas, already soaking up the puddle forming beneath the bench.
Julian watched the shiver ripple through Milo’s frame. Without thinking, he unbuttoned his wool coat. "You’re cold."
"I’m fine. I’m vibrating, remember? Generates heat."
"You’re turning blue." Julian stood up. He was significantly taller than Milo, looming over him. The shift in perspective made Milo tilt his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. Julian felt a jolt in his chest, a physical thud like a heavy book dropping on a floor. He took off the coat.
"Whoa, no, I can't take your coat. Then you’ll be cold, and I’ll be the jerk who stole your heat and your coat."
"Take it," Julian ordered. He held it out. It wasn't a suggestion. The liner was still warm from his body.
Milo hesitated, then stood up and slipped his arms into the sleeves. The coat swallowed him. The sleeves came down past his knuckles. He looked ridiculous and incredibly endearing. He pulled the lapels tight, burying his nose in the fabric. He inhaled sharply.
"Smells like… woodsmoke," Milo mumbled. "And old paper."
"Better than wet dog and pretzels," Julian said, standing in just his sweater. The cold air hit him, bracing and sharp. He didn't mind it. The sight of Milo in his coat was strangely warming.
They stood there for a moment, two islands in the stream of joggers and strollers. The rain was steady now, a curtain separating them from the rest of the world.
"So," Milo said, his voice muffled by the collar. "You need a date for a dinner. To get your family off your back."
Julian narrowed his eyes. "I didn't say I was looking for one."
"And I need to prove to Kyle—and myself, mostly—that I’m not a social pariah who lives in a cave," Milo continued, stepping closer. The distance between them was negligible again. "We already have the backstory. We met on a bench. I insulted your snacks. It was love at first fight."
Julian stared at him. The logic was sound. Terrible, but sound. And more importantly, the idea of walking away, of going back to his silent apartment and never seeing this chaotic, vibrating mess of a human again, felt wrong. Physically wrong. Like missing a step on a staircase.
"You’re proposing a continuation of the lie," Julian said.
"I’m proposing a mutually beneficial arrangement," Milo corrected. He looked up, his eyes bright, rain catching in his lashes. "One dinner. One week of… visibility. You look like you have a girlfriend—boyfriend, sorry—and I look like I have a life. Then we break up. Tragically. Irreconcilably. Over pretzels."
Julian looked at Milo’s mouth, then back to his eyes. The attraction was there, a low hum beneath the absurdity of the situation. It wasn't just that Milo was objectively attractive—which he was, in a frantic, unpolished way—but that he sparked something. He made the silence less empty.
"You have to promise not to vibrate at the dinner table," Julian said.
Milo grinned. It was a real smile this time, crooked and blinding. It transformed his face, smoothing out the anxiety lines. "I can be the picture of calm. I can be… what did you call it? Solid."
"Don't push it," Julian warned, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"Is that a yes?" Milo asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Julian sighed, resigned to the chaos he was inviting in. He reached out and adjusted the collar of the coat around Milo’s neck, his fingers grazing the warm skin of Milo’s jaw. Milo went still instantly, the bounce vanishing, replaced by that visceral, wide-eyed focus. The air between them tightened, snapping like a rubber band.
"It’s a yes," Julian said low. "But if we do this, you do it right. No half-measures. You hold my hand. You answer when I call."
Milo swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the wool collar. "I… yeah. Okay. I can do that."
"Good." Julian stepped back, breaking the spell, though his skin still tingled where he’d touched him. "Come on. My car is parked on the north side. I’m not letting you walk home in those shoes. They’re a disgrace."
"They’re vintage!" Milo protested, trotting to keep up with Julian’s long strides.
"They’re wet canvas," Julian countered. "And you’re paying for the next bag of pretzels."
As they walked away from the bench, leaving the empty bag of salt twists behind, the rain didn't seem quite as cold. The city, usually a vast, isolating grid of concrete, felt suddenly manageable. Just two people, walking in the same direction, away from the silence.