Chapter 4: The Morning After
The first thing Milo noticed wasn't the damp chill seeping through the window or the groaning protests of the bedframe beneath him—it was the weight. A heavy, warm weight draped across his torso, pressing him gently into the thin mattress. The quilt was still tangled around his shoulders, the wool rough against his bare arms, but the real heat came from the body behind him. Wyatt. Unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his chest against Milo's back. The steady rhythm of breathing, slow and deep, like the slow unwinding of a taut wire.
Milo's eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim room.
The morning light filtering through the boarded window was grey and diffused, but it was enough for him to see the shape of the figure pressed against him. His massive arm was still draped over Milo’s chest, the hand resting right above the hollow of his throat, the fingertips lightly brushing where his pulse would be. The heat radiating from that body was enough to make the room feel a few degrees warmer. Milo could feel the steady thump of Wyatt’s heart against his shoulder blade, strong and sure.
Milo lay still, savoring the rare sensation of being held. He hadn’t been held like this in years—maybe not ever.
Wyatt’s body fit perfectly against him, aligning like two pieces of a puzzle forgotten in a workshop box. The pressure against his back was unmistakable now—not just a comforting warmth, but something distinctly more interested. Milo felt Wyatt’s cock thicken, hardening against the small of his back, and his breath hitched. He tried to shift away, muscles tensing, but Wyatt’s arm tightened around him, pulling him closer instead of letting him go. The movement exposed Milo’s neck to Wyatt’s mouth, and a low, rumbling breath ghosted over his skin as Wyatt pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss there. “Good morning,” Wyatt murmured into his skin, voice thick with sleep and something darker, hungrier. His body betrayed him again—heat flooding his face, his neck, pooling low in his stomach—but this time, it wasn’t just embarrassment.
His body betrayed him again—heat flooding his face, his neck, pooling low in his stomach—but this time, it wasn’t just embarrassment. It was a sharp, bright flare of want, so sudden and unfamiliar it stole his breath. He felt his own body stir in answer, a traitorous twitch against the rough fabric of his jeans, and he froze, utterly mortified.
“Feel that?” Wyatt whispered, his lips moving against the shell of Milo’s ear. The words were less a question and more a statement of fact, low and vibrating through bone.
Milo couldn’t speak. He could only nod, a tiny, frantic jerk of his head.
Wyatt’s hand on his chest slid down, slowly, over the quilt and the worn cotton of Milo’s t-shirt. It stopped just above his navel, his broad palm a branding iron of heat. “You can tell me to stop,” he said, his voice gravel-rough. “Any time. One word. But you have to actually say it.”
Milo’s mind was static. Every instinct for self-preservation was screaming about vulnerability, about the dangerous currency of desire. But beneath the fear, a deeper, older hunger was roaring to life. The promise of touch, of being wanted in this specific, carnal way, was a ghost he’d never let himself chase. Wyatt’s thumb stroked a small, hypnotic circle just below his ribs.
“I…” Milo started, but his voice cracked.
“Use your words, Milo.” Wyatt’s other hand came up, fingers threading gently into the messy curls at Milo’s temple. It was an anchoring touch, shockingly tender against the building heat. “Tell me what you need.”
“I don’t know,” Milo breathed out, the confession pathetic and true. He was shaking again, but not from cold. “I’ve never… I don’t know how to…”
The admission seemed to change something in the air. Wyatt stilled behind him, the hard line of his arousal a persistent pressure, but the predatory tension in his grip softened into something else. He exhaled, a long, controlled stream of air against Milo’s neck. “Okay,” he said, the word resigned and somehow warmer. “Okay. That’s okay.”
He didn’t move his hand from Milo’s stomach, but he didn’t go lower. He just held him, letting the frantic energy between them settle into a different kind of charge. Milo’s heart hammered against his ribs, a trapped bird.
“We don’t do anything you don’t understand,” Wyatt said, his tone shifting into something practical, almost instructional. It was the same voice he’d used for the plumbing. “Your body knows what it wants. That’s the easy part. Your head is the complicated wiring. We go at its speed.”
Milo almost laughed, a hysterical bubble rising in his throat. Complicated wiring. Yeah. That was one way to put it. He was a mess of crossed wires and dead ends.
“Can I turn you around?” Wyatt asked. The question was so simple, so blunt, it cut through the noise.
Milo hesitated, then gave another tiny nod.
The arm around him loosened, and Wyatt shifted back, giving him space to move. The loss of his warmth was immediate, a shock of cold air against Milo’s back. He slowly, stiffly, rolled onto his other side to face him.
The grey light caught Wyatt’s features, sharpening the planes of his cheekbones, deepening the pale blue of his eyes. He was propped on one elbow, looking down at Milo. His expression was unreadable—not hungry, not impatient. Just waiting. Seeing.
Milo’s gaze skittered down, then instantly flew back up. The borrowed sweatpants did nothing to hide Wyatt’s erection, the fabric straining. Milo’s face flamed anew. He forced himself to meet Wyatt’s eyes, to not look away like a scared kid.
“Hi,” Wyatt said, a faint, crooked smile touching his lips.
“Hi,” Milo croaked.
They just looked at each other. The sounds of the waking house filtered in—the creak of old timber, a distant bird, the relentless hum of the now-functional water heater from the closet. Proof of permanence.
Wyatt reached out, his fingers hovering near Milo’s jaw. He waited for permission. After a beat, Milo leaned into it, just a fraction. Wyatt’s thumb brushed over the freckles on his cheekbone, a touch so light it was barely there.
“You’re so beautiful,” Wyatt said, not as a line, but as a quiet, observed fact. Like he was noting the condition of the plumbing.
Milo flinched. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not true. It’s just a thing you’re supposed to say.”
Wyatt’s eyebrows lifted. “You think I do things I’m ‘supposed’ to do?” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the room. “Look at me, Milo. Look at this situation. Nothing about this is ‘supposed to.’ I say it because when I look at you, that’s the word that forms. It’s a symptom of the binding, maybe. But it’s not a lie.”
Milo swallowed hard. The intensity in Wyatt’s eyes was too much. He focused instead on the pulse point in Wyatt’s neck, on the faint dusting of dark hair revealed by the stretched collar of his t-shirt. His own desire was a tight, aching knot below his belt.
“I want to touch you,” Milo whispered, surprising himself.
Wyatt’s breath caught. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I’m… I’m scared I’ll do it wrong.”
A soft, genuine laugh escaped Wyatt, a warm sound that seemed to melt the last of the morning’s chill. “There’s no wrong. There’s only what feels good.” He took Milo’s hand, the one clutching the quilt like a lifeline, and gently pried it free. He guided it, placing it flat against his own chest, over his heart. The heat of his skin through the thin cotton was startling. “See? Not wrong.”
Milo let his fingers curl, feeling the powerful muscle beneath, the steady, strong beat. He marveled at it. He had done this. He had called this powerful, living thing into being. The thought was dizzying.
Emboldened, he let his hand slide lower, over the defined ridges of Wyatt’s abdomen. Wyatt sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. The reaction was like a drug, a hit of pure, heady power. Milo did that. He made this formidable creature react.
His fingers skimmed the waistband of the sweatpants, hovering. He looked up at Wyatt’s face for confirmation.
Wyatt’s eyes were open again, dark with wanting. “Your rules,” he reminded him, his voice strained.
Milo’s fingers dipped below the elastic. He touched hot skin, the coarse trail of hair leading down. His own courage terrified him. His hand shook.
Wyatt’s hand covered his, not to force it, but to steady the tremor. “Easy,” he murmured. “Just explore. It’s just a body. It’s my job to make it feel good for you.”
The clinical absurdity of that statement, in that moment, broke the last of Milo’s paralysis. A real, breathy laugh escaped him, and he pushed his hand forward, closing his fingers around Wyatt’s cock.
Wyatt groaned, a raw, unfiltered sound that went straight to Milo’s core. He was thick and heavy in Milo’s grip, velvety skin over iron-hardness. Milo stared at their joined hands, his own slender, calloused fingers wrapped around Wyatt, hidden by Wyatt’s larger ones. The visual was profoundly intimate, more so than anything he’d ever experienced.
“Like that,” Wyatt gritted out, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust into the circle of their hands. “Just like that.”
Milo began to move his hand, a clumsy, tentative stroke. Wyatt’s guidance was subtle, a slight adjustment in pressure, a nudge toward rhythm. Milo watched his face, captivated by every gasp, every clench of his jaw, the way his silver-streaked hair seemed to drift as if touched by a current only he could feel.
This was control. This was a belonging he’d never imagined. Not being taken care of, but being the one who gave pleasure. Who held this wild magic in his hand and made it sing.
He leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against Wyatt’s collarbone, his own arousal a painful, insistent throb. His movements grew more confident, spurred on by Wyatt’s whispered curses and the tightening of muscles under his touch.
“Milo,” Wyatt gasped, his own hand sliding down to clutch at Milo’s hip, fingers digging in. “I’m close. You need to tell me… tell me where.”
The question slammed into him. Where? The implications were vast, a cliff edge. He wasn’t ready, not for that. The fear came rushing back, cold water on the heat.
“Stop,” Milo whispered, the word barely audible.
Wyatt’s whole body locked up instantly. His hand flew away from Milo’s hip as if burned. He didn’t pull Milo’s hand off him, but he went perfectly, painfully still. “Okay,” he said, voice tight with the effort of restraint. “Okay. Stopping.”
Milo pulled his hand back, wiping it reflexively on the quilt. The loss of contact was a physical shock. He couldn’t look at Wyatt, humiliation a hot wave crashing over him. “I’m sorry. I just… I panicked.”
“Don’t apologize.” Wyatt’s voice was rough but firm. He shifted, sitting up fully, putting a few more inches of cold space between them on the mattress. He ran a hand through his hair, breathing heavily, visibly wrestling himself back under control. “You said stop. That’s the rule. That’s the only rule that matters.”
Milo risked a glance. Wyatt’s face was flushed, his eyes still dark, but the wildness in them was receding, replaced by a focused, almost stern concern. He wasn’t angry. He was waiting.Again.
“I want to,” Milo said, desperate for him to understand. “I really, really want to. My body is screaming for it. But my head… it’s like there’s a wall. A really loud, stupid wall.”
A slow smile spread across Wyatt’s face, surprising and soft. “We are experts at walls, you and I.” He nodded at the room around them. “We tear them down and rebuild them better. Stronger. We can do this one, too. Just… maybe not all in one morning.”
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, adjusting his sweats with a wince. He offered Milo a hand. “Come on. The water works. Let’s go see if that showerhead is as rusted as I think it is.”
Milo stared at the offered hand, then up at Wyatt’s face. The tension was still there, a live wire between them, but it had changed. It wasn’t a trap anymore. It was a project. Their next project.
He took Wyatt’s hand, and let him pull him up.
He took Wyatt’s hand, and let him pull him up. The space between them felt charged, different. Wyatt kept his grip for a second longer than necessary, his thumb passing over Milo’s knuckles before letting go.
“A shower sounds insane,” Milo admitted, his voice still unsteady. He looked down at himself, at the dust and old sweat. “In a good way.”
They walked to the bathroom, a narrow, peeling room that now promised a miracle. Milo twisted the faucet. Water, clear and steaming, erupted from the showerhead with a victorious roar. The sound was overwhelming. A cloud of steam began to fog the spotted mirror.
“See?” Wyatt said, a note of pride in his voice. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. The stance made the borrowed t-shirt strain across his shoulders and chest. The damp fabric clung to the cuts of his abdomen.
Milo tried not to stare. He failed. His gaze traced the lines of muscle, the way Wyatt’s body seemed to be carved from something denser than flesh. It was distracting. It made his mouth go dry and his earlier confusion tighten in his gut. This wasn’t a person. This was a construct, a fantasy he’d scribbled into reality. The sheer physical perfection of him was a rebuke to every bony, uncertain inch of Milo’s own frame.
“You need clothes,” Milo blurted out, looking away from the hypnotic pull of Wyatt’s physique. “Real ones. Those are gonna rip if you sneeze.”
Wyatt looked down at the straining sweats and threadbare shirt. He grinned. “I don’t sneeze. But point taken.”
“I’ll go into town. There’s a discount place. I’ll get you… stuff.” Milo needed air. He needed space where the atmosphere wasn’t thick with the smell of steam and Wyatt’s weird, ozone-clean scent. “Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone.”
“I’ll be good,” Wyatt said, his tone light, but his eyes tracked Milo’s retreat with that unsettling focus.
The drive to Crestwood felt like crossing into another world. The familiar clutter of the hardware store, the slow buzz of the supermarket, the bored cashiers—it all felt jarringly normal. Profoundly, aggressively normal.
Milo pushed a rattling cart through the big-box store, throwing in jeans, plain t-shirts, a pack of socks. Everything in the largest sizes he could find. His mind replayed the morning on a loop: the weight of the arm, the heat, the feel of Wyatt in his hand, the choked-up stop. His face burned in the chilled aisle.
A woman with two toddlers gave him a sympathetic smile. He looked away, gripped by a sudden, vertiginous panic. What was he doing? He was buying clothes for a magical being he’d summoned to fix his pipes. A being who wanted to sleep with him. Who couldn’t leave.
He leaned heavily on the cart handle. The fluorescent lights buzzed. This wasn’t quirky or romantic. It was deranged. It was the final, cracked proof of how unfit he was for regular human connection. He’d literally created a companion because he couldn’t manage to find one. The shame was a cold, heavy stone in his stomach.
He paid in cash, the bills feeling flimsy and insignificant. The entire way home, the quiet of the truck was filled with the roaring in his ears. The house, when he pulled up, looked different. Not just a ruin. A container for something impossible.
He hauled the plastic bags inside, the sense of wrongness swelling with every step.
Wyatt wasn’t in the kitchen. The silence felt deliberate. Milo found him in the living room, not fixing anything. He was just standing at a boarded window, a strip of dusty light cutting across his profile. He’d taken the sweatshirt off. His back was a breathtaking map of muscle and tendon, shifting under tan skin as he turned.
“Get what you need?” Wyatt asked, his voice calm.
The calm pissed Milo off. It all pissed him off. The beauty of him, the ease, the way he just existed here like he had any right.
“Yeah,” Milo snapped, dropping the bags on the floor with a crinkle. “Here. Clothes. For my helper.”
The word hung in the air, sharp as a thrown knife. He’d used it before, but this time it was armor, a weapon.
Wyatt turned fully, his expression carefully neutral. “Helper.”
“That’s what you are, right?” Milo’s voice climbed, fueled by a day of spiraling fear. “That’s what the book said. A bound spirit. A helper. You fix things. You don’t… you don’t look at me like that. You don’t say that shit. You’re a tool. I got the wrong model, one with too many… features.”
He was breathing hard, staring at the floor between them, at the dust motes dancing in the harsh light.
Wyatt was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was low, devoid of its usual warmth. “That’s what you want to go back to? After this morning?”
“There is no ‘after this morning!’” Milo shouted, finally looking up. “It was a mistake! I was confused! You’re confusing! This whole thing is a fucking mistake, and I just want the pipes fixed and the roof done and then you can… I don’t know, go back in the book or whatever!”
He saw the flinch then, a real one, deep in Wyatt’s eyes. It wasn’t anger. It was hurt, raw and unmistakable. It made Milo feel sick and powerful all at once.
“Okay,” Wyatt said softly. He nodded, once. He looked down at his own hands, then at the bags of clothes. “A helper. I can do that.”
He walked past Milo, not touching him, and picked up one of the bags. He pulled out a simple black t-shirt, held it up. “This will suffice.” His tone was flat, professional. Distant. “Thank you for the procurement.”
He walked toward the hallway, to the bedroom, to change.
Milo stood alone in the living room, his victory ash in his mouth. The silence he’d craved now felt suffocating. He’d done it. He’d pushed him back. He’d built the wall again, thick and high. He felt utterly, desolately alone.
From the bedroom, there was no sound of fabric rustling. There was a sound like a low hum, a vibration felt in the floorboards more than heard. A pulse of light, amber and deep blue, leaked from under the closed door.
Milo’s breath caught. What now?
The door opened.
Wyatt stepped out.
He was different. He was more.
He had to duck his head to clear the doorway. He stood at what had to be over six-and-a-half feet of pure, dense mass. His shoulders seemed to span the hall. The new black cotton t-shirt he wore was now skin-tight, straining over pectorals that were absurdly large and perfectly defined, a sculpted shelf of muscle. His arms bulged against the short sleeves. The jeans were now painted on over thighs like tree trunks.
His face was sharper, more devastating, the icy blue of his eyes somehow brighter. His silver-streaked hair drifted around his head, alive with unseen energy.
And the bulge in the jeans… Milo’s brain stuttered, refusing to process the sheer, impossible scale of it. It was a profound, outlined weight. The promised dimensions were terrifying, awe-inspiring.
Wyatt took one step, then another, each movement radiating a latent, earth-shaking power. The house seemed to shrink around him. He stopped a few feet from Milo, looking down from his impossible new height. His expression was unreadable, a beautiful, silent monument.
“You wanted a helper,” Wyatt said, his voice deeper, a resonant bass that vibrated in Milo’s chest. “This form is optimized for labor. Greater reach. Superior strength.” He paused, his gaze holding Milo’s, piercing through him. “But the bond is romantic. I cannot change my nature. I can only change the vessel. If I am to be your tool, I will be the most efficient one. And if I am to love you, I will do it in the only shape that feels true to the want I feel.”
He took one final step, closing the distance. Milo had to crane his neck to look up at him. The heat coming off Wyatt’s new body was immense, like standing near a furnace. The presence was overwhelming, a physical force.
“So,” the giant, magnificent creature said, his voice dropping to a whisper that shook the air. “What do you need fixed first, Milo?”