There was a knock at the door.

Rory had come back for him.

Milo didn't know how much time had passed. He got up from the floor, legs still shaky. The knock came again, louder this time, more urgent.

When Rory had left, the slam of the door had kicked something loose in Milo, pulling him up from that slow motion, underwater place.

Milo was a liar. He'd been closing himself off, shutting himself down, for so long that he'd mistaken the heady, exhilarating free-fall of being in love for something dangerous, something to be avoided.

He hurried down the stairs. Milo wouldn't make that mistake again.

He wrenched the door open.

"Rory, I'm so—"

Ryan was standing there. Milo frowned, stepping backwards automatically.

"What the fuck?" Milo said. Ryan laughed rather humorlessly.

"It's good to see you too," he said. "Can I come in?"

"What are you doing here?" Milo said, gripping the door, ready to slam it on Ryan's face.

"You didn't answer any of my texts," Ryan said.

"Yes, well, I blocked your number after you sent me thirty million abusive texts the night of your bachelor party," Milo said coolly.

Ryan looked down at the porch.

"I'm sorry about that, Milo," he said softly, and Milo barked out a cold laugh.

"Way too little and way too late," he said.

"Milo—please—I really need to talk to you," Ryan pleaded. "Please let me inside."

Before Milo realized what he was doing, he'd stepped back to let Ryan in. He shut the door and followed Ryan up the stairs. Milo flopped down on the couch and crossed his arms, waiting for Ryan to explain why he was there. Ryan looked around Milo's living room, hands shoved in his pockets, and said nothing.

"So… do you need something?" Milo said after a moment, and Ryan glanced him, looking slightly wounded.

"God, Milo, we're friends, am I not allowed to just come see you anymore?"

"Are we friends, though?" Milo said, pressing his lips together. "And you should probably ask your wife if you're allowed here."

Ryan sighed and sat down on the couch. Milo made a point of scooting further away. Ryan put his head in his hands and was quiet for a long time. After a moment, Milo felt himself soften.

Logically, he knew he still had every right to be pissed at Ryan, given everything that happened. But… Milo had known Ryan for years. He'd cared about him for years. It wasn't so easy to turn that off, especially when Ryan was so clearly in pain.

"What's wrong, Ryan?" Milo said after a moment, relenting.

Ryan lifted his head, running his hand through his hair. He really did look upset about something. He was still as handsome as ever, but there were dark circles bruising his eyes now, and deep furrows creased his brow.

"I… I really miss you, Milo," Ryan said softly, and the words felt like a punch to Milo's stomach. A year ago—hell, even a few months ago—Milo would have been doing cartwheels if he'd heard Ryan admit that, but now he just felt… hollow.

Ryan looked like he meant it, sounded like he meant it, but maybe, after so many years, Milo was finally learning that Ryan couldn't be trusted.

"Do you?" Milo said, raising an eyebrow, and Ryan flinched like Milo had just slapped him. Ryan moved closer to him on the couch, facing him, but Milo had run out of couch to scoot away from him.

"Milo," Ryan whispered, in the same soft tone of voice he'd used on the rare occasions they'd cuddled after fucking. "I… I know I really hurt you. I’m sorry. I fucked up."

Milo squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard. This had to be some big cosmic joke. How long had he waited to hear Ryan say these exact words? But now that it was finally happening, Milo realized that they wouldn't undo the pain he'd felt, the months he'd lost to heartbreak.

"What do you want, Ryan?" Milo said. He felt suddenly exhausted.

"I want you, Milo."

And then suddenly, Ryan was leaning forward, his hand cupping Milo's face, pressing his lips to Milo's, kissing him—

"Jesus—what the fuck, Ryan—" Milo said, shoving him away and leaping up. He backed away from the couch. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Milo—"

"Get out of my goddamn house," Milo said. Ryan didn't move. "Seriously, get out."

"Please let me explain—"

"Holy fucking shit," Milo said, running his hand through his hair. "I can't believe I almost fell for that again. You haven't changed at all."

"Milo, you can't just forget about us—"

"There never was an us, Ryan," Milo said, his voice like acid. "You made sure of that."

"Give me another chance—"

"I swear to god, Ryan, if you don't get out of here right now, I'll call the police," Milo said, pulling out his phone to make his point. If anything, he'd probably call Kit, who was a lot scarier than the police when they were angry, but Ryan seemed to get the message.

Ryan took a step towards Milo, and Milo held his hand out to stop him.

"Don't you dare touch me," Milo said, anger burning white-hot and molten through his veins. "Get the fuck out."

Ryan's face hardened.

"Don't play games," Ryan said. "We both know—"

"I'm moving to California," Milo said. "With my boyfriend. So go back to your wife. I look forward to never seeing you again."

Milo didn't even know if that was still true, if he even still had a boyfriend. But he knew he was going to fight like hell to salvage things with Rory.

Ryan stood there for a moment, frozen, and finally, miraculously, he turned and left.

He heard the door shut, and Milo burst out laughing.

He laughed so hard that tears started streaming down from his face, so hard that his breath turn into a loud, uneven wheeze. He laughed so hard he collapsed down onto the couch, so hard that somewhere along the line it was almost indistinguishable from a sob—an unadulterated outpouring of emotion.

And finally, the laughter ebbed and Milo was left, slumped over on his couch, gasping for breath, his abs sore. He felt clear, calm—it was the kind of stillness that came after a panic attack.

He knew what he needed to do.