Milo's mornings didn't look like mornings at all. He woke when he felt like it, usually sometime close to noon, the weight of the night before still clinging to his shoulders. His apartment remained in a perpetual half-darkness, curtains drawn tight enough that daylight was reduced to a faint outline behind the fabric. The only real glow came from the tower of monitors at his desk—his lifeline, his office, his escape.
He shuffled into the kitchen, bare feet on cold tile, and set water to boil. Tea, sometimes coffee, whatever got him moving. Breakfast was optional—truthfully, nonexistent. His pantry was stocked more like a college dorm than a still growing teenager's home: stacks of instant noodles, a half-empty box of energy drinks, and an embarrassing collection of soda cans waiting to be thrown out. Cooking was rare. He'd order something decent once in a while, if only to remind himself what real food tasted like.
Mug in hand, he drifted straight to his chair, sinking into it like it was molded for him. The hum of his PC greeted him, fans spinning, lights pulsing faint neon blue across the otherwise plain room. Milo's setup was the only luxury he allowed himself—triple monitors, an immaculate keyboard, mouse that glided like silk, camera rigged for client calls. Everything else in the apartment was stripped to necessity: a couch that could barely be called comfortable, a bed pressed into the corner, and piles of laundry he never quite got to.
First order of business: check the community. Patch notes, scrims, tournament replays—he scrolled through the flood of information like a morning paper. Then came client requests. Messages stacked up overnight, people wanting replay reviews, one-on-one coaching, or just a little advice before promo matches. He sorted through them, mentally blocking out his day into chunks. As a freelancer, the nice thing was that people adjusted to his hours, not the other way around. If Milo wanted to start coaching at midnight, people would book midnight.
One client in particular stood out: a rookie team wanting to make it big. He'd been coaching them for weeks, charging each member individually. Five streams of income, one session. Efficient. He had no illusions about every team breaking through—most fell apart before they even scraped Master tier—but this group had potential.
Milo could play anything. Challenger tier meant versatility. Still, jungle was where he felt most at home. Controlling the map, dictating tempo, punishing mistakes before the enemy even knew they'd made them—that was his style. If pressed to pick a "main," he might have said Talon, for the way the assassin darted over walls like water slipping through cracks. Clean mobility, fast ganks, easy outs. Or Shen, steady and controlled, always a map away from saving someone with his ultimate. One extreme to the other—maybe it said something about him, though he didn't think too hard about it.
By the time his tea had cooled to a tolerable sip, Milo was already lost in it all again. Screens filled his vision, his schedule filled itself, and the hours ahead promised exactly what every day promised: game after game, player after player, another long list of people he would shape, polish, or break down until they understood the game the way he did.
---
Throughout the day, Milo found himself checking his message logs. Not obsessively, but enough that he noticed the pattern. Most of his logs were just what they'd always been: client inquiries, replay links, payment confirmations. Organized, efficient, professional. He liked it that way. Clean. Predictable. But recently, there was one thread that stood out—a different rhythm, a different voice. Fayne.
He'd started coaching her only a little while ago, but their conversations had quickly grown more frequent. What began as scheduling messages had turned into longer back-and-forths. Her questions, her small updates, her little remarks about school or flowers—things no client ever shared—broke up the monotony. He never said it out loud, but he didn't mind. Not one bit.
Outside of her, though? He didn't really have anyone. No friends he texted. No group chats lighting up his notifications. Just business. Just the game. And though Milo would deny it if pressed, there was a hollowness that crept in when the screen went dark. A kind of quiet he couldn't shake.
Maybe that was why Fayne's invitation caught him off guard. A "thank you," she'd called it. Asking him to come out, to hang out. He could barely remember the last time they had. Years, maybe. Not just because they lived in different cities, but because they lived in different worlds. She was still in high school, attending ACA—surrounded by friends, classes, a whole structure to hold her up. He was the opposite: a high school dropout who had chosen a life of stubborn self-reliance far too early.
---
He could still picture that winter, only a couple of months ago, when it all finally broke. The weight of his parents' expectations pressing down until he couldn't breathe. The constant pressure to be someone he wasn't, to follow their plan. He'd decided to leave. Sixteen, no diploma, no stability—just a determination to survive on his own terms. Legally, he couldn't even sign the papers for an apartment. That was where Alexandra came in. His sister, Alex. She'd flown back from America, stood by him, and handled the paperwork through her connections. Without her, Milo knew he wouldn't have made it.
Her, and Fayne's family. They had been his anchors, the only people who kept him from drifting completely. He owed them everything. Too much, maybe. Some part of him wanted to believe that coaching Fayne, helping her learn a game, was his way of paying it back. But deep down, he knew better. That was just something he told himself to make it feel less one-sided. Truth was, he could never repay what they had done. The past was too heavy, too far gone.
Still… when Fayne messaged him, when she invited him out, he couldn't help but feel the faintest pull. A reminder that maybe, despite the walls he'd built, he wasn't entirely unreachable.
---
Milo accepted her invitation, though it felt almost alien to him. He wasn't the kind of person to go out, much less to a ballet performance. But Fayne had asked, and for some reason, he found it hard to tell her no. She'd told him her friend, Agnes, was performing, and that she, Leah, Mira, and even some guy named Paul were all going to be there to watch. Apparently, it was going to be more of a group outing than anything personal.
Truth be told, Milo had been hoping for something quieter. Just him and Fayne, maybe a chance to catch up outside the glow of a monitor, outside the neat little boxes of Discord logs and champion select screens. He wanted to see her as more than just a name on his friends list. But instead, he'd have to share that time with her circle. Better than nothing, he supposed.
Still, the thought lingered as he closed the chat window. His stomach twisted at the idea of being surrounded by people his age who were… normal. Who lived with their families, hung out in groups, went to school, and cheered their friends on at ballet recitals. It wasn't his world anymore. He'd dropped out, carved his own path, cut ties with that kind of structure.
But Fayne had invited him. She hadn't forgotten about him, hadn't pushed him away as just another dropout case. That counted for something. Maybe more than he wanted to admit.
So Milo typed out a quick yeah, I'll come before he could overthink it, shut his laptop, and sat back in his chair. The idea of walking into a theater, surrounded by her friends, already felt like stepping onto another planet. But if Fayne wanted him there, he'd go. Even if it wasn't the way he had imagined it.
---
So the day came.
Milo hadn't given much thought to his outfit. He never really did. Half his wardrobe was made up of muted hoodies and dark jeans anyway, so he picked one and called it good. His hair was its usual untamed mess of dark curls, falling over his forehead and brushing the rims of his glasses. The frames—square and slightly oversized—lent him a sharpness that contrasted with the soft angles of his face. Combined with his tall, wiry frame and his habit of carrying himself with a kind of quiet wariness, he cut a figure that looked more deliberate than it really was.
He made sure to actually eat something before heading out—two pieces of toast with a fried egg balanced on top. A foreign sort of "proper breakfast" compared to the endless cycle of coffee and vending machine snacks he usually lived on. It sat heavy in his stomach as he stepped outside, the partly cloudy sky letting slants of sunlight break through in patches, warming his hoodie when the wind wasn't tugging at it.
---
The station wasn't crowded, which helped. He spotted Fayne first—lean, reserved, eyes carrying that same stillness Milo remembered. Then the twins, Mira and Leah, side by side. They looked the same as they always did: open, warm, effortlessly at ease in ways Milo couldn't begin to fake.
"Hey," Mira said brightly, lifting her hand as though the simple greeting carried all the weight of catching up. Leah echoed it with a quieter smile, and Fayne gave a small nod in acknowledgment.
"Nice seeing you again," Leah added, and her voice carried just enough sincerity to ease the stiffness in his shoulders.
"Yeah," Milo replied, blunt as ever, but it came out steadier than he expected.
The twins slipped into their usual rhythm almost instantly—laughing, nudging each other, weaving through the station crowd like they'd rehearsed it. They didn't look back often, but they didn't need to. Milo and Fayne trailed behind at their own pace, a quieter current in their wake.
Milo shoved his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, his eyes following the gray streaks of cloud overhead through the glass roof. The light came in patches, catching in his hair, in the sharp edge of his glasses.
"Not really your thing, huh?" Fayne said, her voice low—more observation than question. She didn't look at him directly, just a sidelong glance before her eyes drifted back to the crowd ahead.
Milo gave a faint shrug. "Could be worse." He let a beat pass before adding, softer, "Thanks, though. For thinking of me."
Fayne's lips curved in a small, thoughtful smile. "Agnes thought it was a good idea to invite you. Paul too. I just… figured you wouldn't say no if I asked."
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of Milo's mouth, almost a smirk but not quite. "Guess you weren't wrong."
---
They walked a few steps in silence, the steady hum of the station filling in what neither of them felt the need to say aloud. Fayne adjusted the strap of her bag, her steps even, unhurried. Then, in her quiet way, she offered, "She mentioned stopping at a café after. Her treat."
Milo's brow twitched at that. Of course it was. Fayne had told him—offhand, like it was nothing—that Agnes's family was rich. Not the comfortable kind of rich, but really rich. The kind that owned more than one summer house, the kind that never thought twice about ordering the expensive thing off the menu.
So yeah, a café outing for six people? That was pocket change to her. She could probably pay for everyone in the place without blinking.
Still, the thought left Milo with a mix of feelings he didn't quite know what to do with. On the one hand, he hated the idea of being someone's charity case. On the other, he couldn't deny that it was… thoughtful. In her own way, Agnes didn't mean it as pity—just as something simple, normal. A gesture.
"Figures," Milo muttered, almost to himself, before pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "She probably won't even notice the bill."
Fayne's mouth quirked at that, amused but not unkind. "Maybe not. But she thought about it. About us. About you."
Milo glanced at her, then away again. He didn't reply, but the faint tightness in his chest eased, just a little. Still, he felt the need to defend himself, to push back against the picture of him as someone who needed looking after.
"I mean… I did eat breakfast today," he said, the words sharper than he meant them to be. His hand slipped deeper into his hoodie pocket. "Real breakfast. Toast. Egg. Not just coffee."
Fayne tilted her head, studying him with that calm, thoughtful expression of hers.
"Once in a lifetime event, maybe," Milo went on, muttering under his breath, "but still. I'm not completely hopeless on the nutrition front."
That earned him a quiet laugh from her—not loud or mocking, but soft, almost like a breath. She didn't tease, didn't press. Just let the moment settle in a way that didn't sting.
"Noted," she said gently. "Toast and egg. Proof of life."
Milo huffed through his nose, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. For some reason, her phrasing made the defensiveness drain out of him. He didn't feel judged, just… seen.
And walking there beside her, trailing behind the twins' bright chatter, that was enough.
---
Paul was waiting near the entrance when they arrived, leaning casually against the railing like he had all the time in the world. His dark hair was tucked neatly under a beret, and there was an easy warmth in his smile that instantly made him approachable. Something about him carried that older-brother energy—steady, dependable—despite only being a year older than the rest of them.
"Hey," he greeted, straightening with a small wave. "Right on time. Come on, I'll take you in."
The group followed as he led them past the bustling hallways, past performers adjusting costumes and stagehands rushing equipment. Paul's calm presence cut through the chaos; he moved like he'd been here a hundred times before. And in a way, he had—Agnes had been his childhood friend, so of course he was granted access.
---
The backstage lounge had a warm, golden glow from the bulbs circling the mirrors. Amid the chatter and rustle of fabric, Milo's eyes found her instantly.
Agnes sat poised before one of the mirrors, leaning close as she added the final touches of makeup. She wore a flowing dress—elegant yet understated—that made her look like she belonged on a stage even before she stepped onto one. Her chestnut hair framed her face in soft waves, pulled back by a red ribbon that caught the light.
Her blue-green eyes lit up when she spotted them in the doorway. "Oh! You made it." She rose lightly from her seat, smile bright and genuine. She greeted each of them with a warmth that felt practiced yet sincere, before her gaze settled on Milo.
"You must be Milo, right?" she said, stepping closer. "It's nice to finally meet you."
Milo shifted his weight, one hand hooked in his hoodie pocket. "Yeah. Same."
Agnes laughed lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I have to admit—I'm nervous. But also… excited."
"Nervous?" Mira gasped in mock disbelief, tossing her hands dramatically. "Agnes, please. With your talent? You'll be exceptional."
Leah nodded in quiet agreement, Fayne offering a small smile of encouragement. Paul, too, added a soft, "You've got this."
The reassurance seemed to ease her shoulders, and Agnes's smile softened. "Thank you. That means a lot."
Milo remained quiet, not quite knowing what to say. Ballet wasn't his thing—in fact, he'd never seen a performance before—but seeing the way her face lit up, the way the others believed in her, he figured it couldn't hurt to watch. Maybe it'd be… nice.
He found himself curious, despite himself.
---
When it was finally time for the performance, Paul guided them through the hushed corridors of the theater and into the auditorium. He grinned as he gestured at their row, lowering his voice but still carrying that teasing, older-brother tone.
"Reserved seats. Courtesy of yours truly. Best seats in the house," he said with a wink.
Sure enough, the view was perfect—close enough to see every detail on stage, yet far enough to take in the full sweep of movement. Mira and Leah leaned forward with barely restrained excitement, Fayne settling gracefully beside them, calm but attentive. Milo lowered into his chair, feeling oddly grounded by the plush red seat beneath him. He told himself it didn't matter—just another performance, right? But the quiet anticipation humming in the audience was strangely contagious.
The house lights dimmed. Conversations hushed to silence. And then, the curtains parted.
The pre-performers stepped out first—talented, clearly skilled, their movements precise and well-rehearsed. The audience clapped politely, and Milo could appreciate the discipline it must take. Still, it was obvious everyone was waiting for the later numbers. Her number.
And when Agnes appeared on stage, something shifted.
The light seemed to find her instantly, wrapping her in gold. She moved with a grace that didn't look practiced but natural, like she belonged to the music itself. Every turn, every lift of her arm, every delicate leap looked effortless, as though her body simply knew what to do before she did. Milo felt his breath catch without realizing it.
She didn't just shine charismatically—she commanded. Her dance had that rare kind of elegance that wasn't stiff, wasn't forced. It was fluid, alive, the kind of thing that made you forget for a moment you were watching someone perform and instead feel like you were being let in on something secret.
By the time the final note fell, the theater erupted. Applause thundered through the room, the audience rising in unison to their feet. A standing ovation, loud and unhesitating.
Agnes and her company bowed together, her chest rising and falling with the effort she had just poured out on stage, but her smile was radiant. The light caught her ribbon as she dipped forward, her gaze sweeping the sea of faces that stood for her.
Milo found himself clapping too, louder than he expected. For someone who had never cared about ballet, the performance hadn't just been good—it had been something else entirely.
And though he didn't say it, he understood then what Fayne and company already knew: Agnes wasn't just talented. She was exceptional.
---
Backstage was still buzzing with congratulations when Agnes finally rejoined them. She had changed out of her costume, but even casually, she looked… well, put-together. A soft cream blouse tucked neatly into a flowing skirt, paired with a delicate cardigan draped over her shoulders. Elegant, feminine, expensive—but not in a stiff, untouchable way. Her handbag in particular caught Mira's attention almost immediately.
"Wait, where did you get that?" Mira blurted, pointing at the polished leather with wide eyes.
Agnes blinked, then laughed lightly. "This? Oh, just a little boutique I like. Why?"
Mira groaned theatrically, already pulling out her phone as if she was updating her mental shopping list. "Because I need it. And because my parents are definitely going to need convincing to raise my allowance by, like… triple. Minimum."
Leah rolled her eyes, though fondly. "Mira…"
"Don't even try to stop me," Mira declared, though she grinned.
Agnes just smiled at the exchange, her poise never faltering, and with a graceful sweep of her hand she guided them toward the exit. "Come on. We're celebrating properly. My favorite café isn't far. And you're all ordering whatever you like—no holding back."
---
The café itself was charming—warm light spilling from brass fixtures, shelves of pastries displayed behind glass, the faint hum of quiet music in the background. Agnes seemed perfectly at home here, leading them straight to a spacious corner table.
When the menus came around, Mira wasted no time. "Okay, I'm going all in—strawberry shortcake and a caramel latte. If Agnes is paying, I refuse to hold back."
Leah, ever more restrained, chose a delicate fruit tart and a cup of Earl Grey. Fayne skimmed the menu carefully before settling on something simple but thoughtful: a slice of lemon chiffon cake and a matcha latte.
Paul chuckled, leaning back in his chair as he set his order down casually: a cappuccino and a croissant sandwich. "Classic combo. Don't judge me."
When the attention turned to Milo, he hesitated only a second before closing the menu. "I'll, uh… take the blueberry cheesecake. And a black coffee."
The words felt strange on his tongue, but he added after a pause, a little quieter, "Thanks. Really. For the treat."
Agnes's smile warmed. "Of course. I'm glad you're here."
As the waiter disappeared with their orders, the table filled with chatter—Mira joking about how she'd smuggle Agnes's wardrobe one day, Paul recounting a clumsy stagehand incident he'd witnessed backstage, Fayne listening intently while offering the occasional thoughtful remark.
Milo sat back, listening more than he spoke, but every so often he caught himself watching Agnes. She carried herself with the same effortless grace off-stage as she had on it. And though her world felt far from his own, in this moment, it didn't feel so unreachable.
---
After escorting Leah, Mira, and Fayne to the station, Milo lingered a little ways back from the platform. The twins chatted animatedly as they boarded, Fayne offering him one last, quiet smile before stepping inside. Milo caught her glance and, without really meaning to, held onto it until the train's doors closed and the cars rolled away.
He was just turning to leave when Paul, hands shoved in his pockets, asked casually, "So, where do you live? Since, y'know, all three of us are in Valmere."
Milo hesitated. For a second, the instinct was to brush it off, keep vague. Addresses meant familiarity, familiarity meant expectations—and he wasn't exactly big on letting people too close. But then he thought of Fayne, the trust in her calm gaze earlier, and figured… what was the harm? If she trusted them, maybe he could too.
"…Rosevale Heights," he said finally. "Unit 3C. Off Larkspur Street."
Paul's brows lifted. "No kidding? That's closer than I thought. I'm over in Willowmark Flats. Practically a stone's throw from you."
"Stone's throw," Milo repeated under his breath, filing away the phrase.
Paul rattled off his own address with an easy shrug, not making a big deal out of it. Milo just nodded, pretending it didn't feel strange to say those words out loud to someone new.
---
Since Agnes had mentioned she wanted to swing by Paul's before heading home, the three of them walked together, their footsteps echoing along the lamplit streets. The air was cool, the sky partly cloudy, and the buzz of the city had mellowed into something softer for the night.
Milo hadn't expected the company, but he didn't mind it either. Paul was easygoing, steady in conversation without pressing too hard, and Agnes's presence—elegant even in her casual clothes—made the evening feel strangely lighter.
---
"So, Milo," Paul started after a few blocks, tone casual but curious, "what do you do these days? Fayne mentioned you were… a coach? League of Legends, right? That true?"
Milo's shoulders stiffened slightly at being put on the spot, but he gave a small nod. "Yeah. Coach. Been playing league since I was a kid. Helps cover bills, y'know."
Paul's brows rose, impressed. "At sixteen? Not bad. Already carving out a career before most people even know what they want. Respect."
Milo huffed softly, uncertain whether to take it as praise or pressure. "It's… something. Keeps me busy."
Agnes tilted her head, smiling gently. "I think it's admirable. Not many people our age can say they're doing something that real."
Milo didn't reply right away, but the faint warmth in her words lingered. He shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket, hoping they couldn't see the way his ears burned under the streetlights.
---
As the conversation drifted, Milo pieced together bits of information about the two of them. They both attended Valmere Grand Academy—VGA. He'd heard of it before; hard not to, given its reputation. A performance arts–oriented high school, one that drew in talent from all over the region. Just the name fit Agnes perfectly, like she was born for its stage.
But Paul? He glanced at him, curiosity flickering.
"What about you?" Milo asked, surprising himself a little with the question.
Paul's smile curved, a touch sheepish, but his eyes held something steady. "Violin."
Milo blinked, processing that. Paul didn't strike him as the type—calm, yes, dependable, yes, but… violin? Still, the more he thought about it, the more it fit. That thoughtful steadiness in his gaze suddenly made sense.
"Guess that tracks," Milo murmured.
Paul chuckled at the vague response, not pushing further. Agnes giggled softly beside them.
---
For Milo, the walk home stretched longer than expected—but in a way he didn't mind. The night air, the quiet rhythm of conversation, the realization that maybe these people weren't as far from him as he thought… It left him feeling oddly grounded.
---
When they finally split off at the corner, Agnes offered a graceful wave. "Thank you again for coming today. It meant a lot."
Paul added a nod. "See you around, yeah? Don't be a stranger."
Milo slipped his hands into his hoodie pocket, answering with a short, "Yeah." But as he walked the last stretch alone toward Rosevale Heights, he caught himself almost smiling.
He wouldn't say it out loud, not to them, not even to himself just yet, but the outing had been… nice. Nicer than he'd probably like to admit.