When She Learned My Name

20. Milo Night (final)

“Can we have Milo with…With Fernie…too?…”

Gray freezes midway through straightening his cuffs, his hands dropping to his sides as he stares down at her with an expression of sheer, unadulterated disbelief.

For three full seconds, the only sound in the grand study is the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. Then, a slow, deeply offended scowl spreads across Gray’s face, though it’s entirely devoid of actual heat.

"Milo? With Fernie?" Gray echoes, his voice pitching up in comical horror as he repeats the ridiculous nickname like it's a foreign curse word. He crosses his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes at her. "Let me get this straight. The man who commands a shadow syndicate, trades in multinational corporate security, and probably has a panic room lined with titanium—you want to invite Fernando Blake over for a cozy cup of chocolate malt powder in our kitchen?"

Despite himself, the corner of Gray’s mouth twitches upward, fighting a losing battle against a reluctant, amused grin.

"Next thing I know, you'll be telling me he takes his with extra marshmallows," Gray mutters, shaking his head as he tosses his hands up in a gesture of absolute defeat.

"Unbelievable. If I have to sit across from the apex predator of the Toronto underworld while he casually drinks cocoa with my little sister, I'm billing Blake & Co. for my therapy. But fine. Send him the invite, Gabby. Let's see if the man who owns the dark knows how to handle a mug of hot milk."

“Hihihi Gray… what do you think if…if me and Fernie…marry?…”

Gray’s brain short-circuits completely.

The lingering, amused smirk freezes right on his face, his jaw dropping open slightly as her whisper hangs in the air of the grand study like a live grenade. For a long, agonizing moment, he doesn't blink, doesn't breathe, and doesn't move a single muscle, as if hoping his ears have somehow betrayed him.

"Marry?" Gray echoes, his voice pitching up into a strangled squeak that shatters all his remaining corporate composure.

He takes two sharp steps backward, his hands flying up to grip his own hair as he begins pacing frantic circles across the Persian rug, muttering entirely to himself.

"We went from 'we're just a little closer' to 'marriage' in the span of three minutes," Gray panics, whirling back around to point an accusing finger at her blushing face. "Gabby, it's been a week! You're talking about wedding bells with the man who practically moonlights as a James Bond villain! Do you have any idea what the guest list for a Valentina-Blake wedding would even look like? Half the attendees would be corporate executives, and the other half would look like they're wanted by Interpol!"

He stops dead in his tracks, staring at her crimson cheeks and the shy, hopeful way she’s looking down at her lap. All his frantic pacing and theatrical ranting instantly melt away, replaced by the heavy, helpless affection of an older brother who knows he has already lost the argument before it even began.

Gray lets out a long, dramatic groan, dropping his head back against the high ceiling of the study before letting his shoulders slump in total defeat.

"God help me," he mutters, walking back over and dropping heavily into the velvet armchair across from her. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and giving her a soft, exasperated, but deeply fond smile. "If you actually go through with this, Gabby... I am walking you down the aisle, and I am making Fernando sign a prenuptial agreement written in blood. But... if he makes you look like that?"

Gray shakes his head, a genuine, warm smile finally breaking through. "Then I guess I'll start shopping for a tuxedo."

***

-Milo Night-

The kitchen island is bathed in the warm, amber glow of the under-cabinet lights, a stark, cozy contrast to the cavernous, formal halls of the mansion.

Perched high on a padded barstool, Gabriella is wrapped entirely in her favorite oversized pink pajama set with little white clouds scattered across the fabric. Her bare feet dangle a few inches above the floor, kicking back and forth in a slow, rhythmic sway as she cradles a heavy ceramic mug between her palms. The rich, sweet scent of warm milk and malted chocolate drifts lazily into the air, mingling with the faint, crisp smell of autumn coming through the slightly cracked kitchen window.

Across the marble counter, Gray is leaning against the refrigerator with a mug of his own, nursing his cocoa while watching her swinging legs with an expression of dry, amused skepticism.

"I still can't believe I allowed this," Gray mutters into the steam of his mug, though the corner of his mouth is twitching upward. "Milo night with the dark lord of the underworld. If he shows up in a three-piece suit holding a briefcase full of tactical spreadsheets instead of pajamas, I'm locking the doors."

Before Gabriella can fire back a defense for her fiancé, the low, throaty purr of a high-end engine cuts through the quiet night outside, idling smoothly in the private drive before clicking off. A moment later, the heavy oak service door at the end of the hall clicks open with quiet precision.

Footsteps approach—measured, unhurried, and completely unmistakable.

Fernando walks into the kitchen, and for once, the impenetrable aura of the Blake syndicate is hilariously compromised. He has discarded his tailored suit jacket and tie, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves casually rolled up to his forearms, revealing the sharp lines of his wrists.

He stops dead in his tracks just past the kitchen threshold, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene: the pink pajamas, the dangling legs, the two steaming mugs, and Gray standing guard like an overprotective lighthouse keeper.

A slow, utterly disarming smile touches Fernando's lips, softening his sharp features entirely as he looks right at her.

"I take it," Fernando says, his deep, velvet voice cutting smoothly through the quiet kitchen as he steps closer, "this is the infamous Milo night I’ve been vetted for?"

“You don’t like it? Oh…you don’t like me…I’m sorry I disappointed you…hic…”

The moment the sad little hiccup slips out and her shoulders slump, Fernando’s amusement vanishes entirely. The easy, teasing posture he had walking into the room evaporates in a fraction of a second.

He covers the distance between the doorway and the kitchen island in three long, deliberate strides, bypassing Gray entirely. Before Gabriella even has time to fully lean into her performance, Fernando’s hands are sliding around the ceramic mug, gently taking it from her trembling fingers and setting it down safely on the marble counter.

"Don't do that," Fernando murmurs, his deep voice instantly dropping into that low, anchoring register that cuts straight through every bit of drama.

He steps right up to the barstool, his long fingers cupping the sides of her face, tilting her chin up so she has no choice but to look at him. His dark eyes are wide with an urgent, absolute sincerity, completely stripped of any irony.

"Disappointed?" Fernando repeats softly, his thumb gently smoothing over her cheekbone to brush away a stray strand of hair. "Gabriella, look at me. You could be wearing a neon dinosaur costume in the middle of a war zone and I would still look at you the exact same way. The only thing disappointing right now is your acting."

A sharp, barking snort of laughter bursts out of Gray from across the counter, where he is leaning heavily against the fridge, holding his mug to his chest.

"Oh, absolutely tragic," Gray deadpans, shaking his head with a dramatic eye-roll, though the affectionate smirk playing on his lips betrays him entirely. "Five-star performance right there, Gabby. She’s been practicing that depressive pout since we were ten just to emotionally manipulate us."

Fernando doesn't look away from her, though a faint, fond shadow of a smile touches the corner of his mouth at Gray’s interruption. His gaze stays locked on hers, steady and completely unyielding.

"I love the pajamas," Fernando murmurs, leaning in just a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a low, private hum meant only for her ears, completely ignoring her brother.

"And I love the Milo. Now stop fishing for compliments, Gabby, and scoot over so your terrifying, three-piece-suit-hating brother doesn't have to watch us make moon eyes over cocoa."