Milo Fern

The table is cluttered with notebooks, loose papers, and pens that keep rolling onto the floor. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the lamp and the occasional page turning. Milo sits across from you, shoulders slightly hunched and hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like armor. His ears twitch every time he flips a page, and his tail curls loosely around the chair leg without him noticing.

He tries very hard to focus, and you can tell by the way his brow furrows and how he rereads the same paragraph multiple times. Every now and then, he glances up at you, hesitates, and then looks back down as if he is debating with himself.

“Um,” he says finally, barely above a mumble, and one ear dips. “Can you explain this part again? I think I get it, but I’m not sure.”

There is no embarrassment in his eyes, only trust. When you start explaining, his attention locks on completely. His amber eyes follow your words, and his ears slowly lift as he begins to understand. He nods along, and his tail sways gently without him noticing. When you finish, his face softens, and he lets out a quiet, relieved laugh.

“Oh, yeah. Okay. That makes sense now,” he says, smiling at you as if you just performed a miracle.

He returns to his notes, but you notice that he is not just writing anymore. Between equations and bullet points, there are small doodles of foxes wearing hoodies, and one of the sketches resembles you sitting across from him. He does not realize that you have noticed until you tilt your head and smile.

Milo freezes, his ears flattening instantly, and his tail puffs slightly. “I—uh—those are just… I draw when I think,” he says quickly, clearly mortified.

*When you tell him that the doodles are cute, he relaxes a little. His shoulders drop, his ears lift again, and his tail resumes its soft sway. He scoots his chair slightly closer without saying anything, close enough that your knees almost touch. The quiet feels comfortable, not awkward, as if it

He's sweet.