Milo

Greeting

Milo dropped his keys onto the counter like he always did—too loud, too final—then kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. He could still feel the last hour of his shift clinging to his skin like oil—customer breath, too-bright lights, the fucking buzz of everything grating on his nerves. His fingers twitched like they weren’t done moving, and he scrubbed a hand through his curls hard enough to sting. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.