Love, Carefully Handled
Las Vegas, Nevada
Valentine’s Day
Miles had already decided they weren’t going out before Carter ever said the words. Truth be told, Carter hadn’t said them at all.
He’d hovered in the bedroom doorway earlier that afternoon, keys in hand, that careful look on his husband’s face, the one that meant ‘I’m fine, really’, except Miles knew better now. Knew the way Carter still clocked exits without meaning to. He also knew how the idea of crowds still lived somewhere between exhausting and impossible.
So Miles had taken the keys from his hand, kissed him once on the cheek, and said, “Sit. I’ve got this.”
And that was that.
Now the condo smelled like rice vinegar and ginger, clean and grounding. Two containers of sushi sat on the counter, meticulously chosen, checked twice, nothing that would even think about triggering Carter’s allergies. Miles had been ruthless about it for years now and he was not about to take shortcuts or risks.
A bottle of Carter’s favorite wine rested on the counter like a quiet promise. Candles, not dramatic, just intentional, waited unlit on the coffee table.
It wasn’t fancy. It was theirs and exactly how they liked it.
From down the hall came the unmistakable sound of teenage panic.
“Miles...” Kevin called, voice wobbling, “How long does it take to decide if this is ‘trying too hard’ or ‘not trying enough’?”
Miles didn’t look up from slicing avocado, “Depends. Are you staring at yourself in the mirror like it’s about to judge you?”
“...Yes.”
Miles smiled, “Come ‘ere, let’s see.”
Kevin appeared in the kitchen entryway, hoodie half-zipped, his dark curly hair still damp from the shower, hands jammed in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. He was obviously nervous with an edge of earnestness. You could tell he was trying so hard it hurt. And it was adorable, reminding him of Carter at the beginning of their relationship.
Miles leaned back against the counter, pursuing the look. Kevin stood there like he was waiting to tell him it was all wrong. Miles sighed and waved to him, “All ‘ight. Come here.”
Kevin shuffled closer. Miles glanced at him over and then reached out, tugged lightly at the hoodie zipper, adjusting it by a fraction, “Ok, first of all relax your shoulders. You look like you’re about to sit down to a huge exam.”
Kevin groaned, "This is worse.”
Miles snorted, "I mean...Fair. But it’s not like you two haven’t been out before.” Then, absolutely unhelpfully, he started to sing “Love is in the aaaiiir...”
Kevin froze, "Miles...please....No. Don’t. Please don’t.”
“Every sight and every soouuund...”
“For Gods sake....MILES!!”
From the living room came a sudden, off-key intrusion, "Dooon’tcha wish your girlfriend was hooooot like meee...” It sounded less like singing and more like an owl with asthma trying to seduce a room.
Kevin slapped both hands over his face, "I am never emotionally recovering from this.”
Miles turned slowly to see Carter was sprawled on the couch, blanket over his legs, grinning like a menace, clearly proud of himself.
“That,” Miles said flatly, “Was a crime, love.”
Carter coughed and tried again, worse this time, "Don’tcha--” He broke into laughter halfway through, "Okay, no. I’m done. My voice tapped out.”
Kevin groaned, "You’re both grounded, you are to stay in this house and not embarrass me any further....” Just as his phone notification goes off, “Connor is in the building. He’ll be here in a few.”
Miles laughed, walked over, and squeezed Kevin’s shoulder, "Go on. Before we embarrass you further.”
Kevin hesitated, then nodded, "Okay. Are you sure that I look okay? I mean...”
“You look amazing, Kev! Have fun!!!”
“Trust us, kid. We want you to be comfortable.” Before he could move, Miles pulled him into a quick, firm hug, "Text when you get there. Text if you’re going late. CALL if you need us. But most importantly be yourself and have fun.”
Kevin hugged back harder than expected, "I will.”
The knock came a moment later, Connor’s voice echoed from the hallway, bright and nervous. Kevin grabbed his jacket and headed out, cheeks pink.
Miles locked the door behind them, habit ingrained especially after everything, then turned back to the condo.
Carter was still smiling.
Miles started setting things out, plates, chopsticks, candles. He picked up the wine bottle last and that’s when Carter’s smile faltered. It was just a flicker and almost easy to miss. Miles caught it anyway.
“Hey,” he said gently, "You good?”
Carter looked at the bottle, then away. His fingers curled slightly in the blanket, "I....can we not tonight?”
Miles didn’t ask why. He already knew. The image was burned into both of them, Miles standing in a grocery aisle, confused, a bottle of wine sitting in his cart that he didn’t put there. The quiet message, ‘I’m watching.’ Miles set the bottle down without hesitation and slid it out of sight, "Of course.”
Carter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, "I’m sorry, babe.”
“No,” Miles said immediately, "Don’t. We can have fun without the inebriations, I don’t even know why I grabbed it.”
He grabbed two glasses anyway, filled them with water instead, and carried everything to the coffee table. Carter watched him with something soft and aching in his eyes.
“You didn’t even hesitate,” Carter said.
Miles shrugged, "It’s just a drink, love. I rather you enjoy this night more than anything. I don’t want you to forget that, okay?”
Carter reached out and caught his wrist gently, "But...It meant something for us.”
“Hey,” Miles leaned down and kissed him, slow and careful, "You matter more, and tonight it is about us.”
They settled on the couch, sushi between them, candles flickering softly with Netflix roulette about to kick on in full effect. Outside, Vegas kept being loud and sharp and unforgiving. Inside, love was quiet. A little ridiculous. Carefully handled and for tonight, that was enough.
-----------------
A Few Days Later
Las Vegas, Nevada
Miles noticed the quiet first. Not the good quiet. Not the peaceful kind. The settled quiet, the kind that only shows up after something bad has already happened and everyone is pretending it didn’t leave fingerprints behind.
Morning light crept through the blinds in thin bands, striping the bedroom wall. Carter was still asleep beside him, breathing steady, one arm slung across Miles’ waist like it had always belonged there. No nightmare this time.
That alone should’ve been enough to let Miles relax.
It wasn’t.
He lay there staring at the ceiling, cataloguing the apartment the way he did every morning now. He had messaged Kristjan the night before just to give him the morning off. Sleep was harder lately, especially with his head constantly making lists: Locks. Cameras.
He could hear the faint hum of the hallway monitor. Took note of the weight of Carter’s arm. The absence of Kevin’s footsteps, school day, he must be running behind because he heard the alarm go off a while ago.
For all of it, it was just...Normal.
Miles had learned the hard way that normal was not the same thing as safe.
Carefully, so he wouldn’t wake Carter, he slipped out of bed. Bare feet hit the cool tile. He moved through the condo on instinct, not paranoia, at least that’s what he told himself. He checked the door, glancing at the monitor. Adjusted the camera angle in the living room by half an inch, because the sun glare hit it weird at this hour.
He didn’t remember when he’d started doing that.
The coffee machine clicked on. He didn’t drink it right away. He stood there with his hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing, thoughts drifting back to the ring, to the echo of his own voice when he’d announced the stipulation.
Last Man Standing. It wasn’t about Alex anymore, or even that SCW Internet Championship.... Not really.
That part of him, the one that wanted blood, consequence, finality, had already made its peace with that choice. He’d meant every word he said. He still did. But there was another truth sitting heavier in his chest now.
He wasn’t fighting for a title.
He was fighting because he’d seen how quickly everything he loved could be placed on a scale and weighed by people who didn’t know them or didn’t care. They didn’t see Carter wake up choking on memories or Kevin hovering in doorways like he needed permission to exist.
Miles had lived his whole life knowing how to take hits, his old man made sure of that one.
What he’d never learned, what nobody ever prepared you for, was how to stand still while the world threatened to take things from you.
He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaled slowly.
From the hallway came the sound of a bedroom door opening.
Kevin shuffled out in socks, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still a little wild from sleep. He stopped short when he saw Miles and gave a small, sheepish smile.
“Morning,” Kevin said.
Miles turned, surprised, and then he froze. Kevin wasn’t tense or guarded. He didn’t seem to be scanning corners or folded inward like he had been weeks ago. Just... tired normal teenager that sat on the edge of 16.
“Morning,” Miles said quietly.
Kevin crossed the kitchen, grabbed a granola bar from the bowl like it was muscle memory, "Connor texted me very early. Apparently he still has been finding chocolate and popcorn in his hoodie since Saturday. I think he’s dramatic.”
Miles snorted before he could stop himself, “You can thank Bella for the recipe when we see her next time, tell him if he needs it dry cleaned to bring it over and I’ll see what I can do.”
Kevin glanced up, caught the sound, and smiled wider—proud. Like he’d earned it.
“I may stay a bit after school, they are doing track tryouts and...I don’t know, I was thinking about trying it out.” Kevin added, "The gym teacher has always said I was the fastest runner they’ve seen in quite some time.”
“Well how about this....Text me when you’re done,” Miles said automatically, "I’ll pick you up. Now are you sure you don’t want a ride in this morning?”
“Nah, Connor’s dad said he can grab me this morning,” Kevin hesitated, then leaned in and hugged him, quick, unannounced, solid, "But I will do that.”
Then he was gone, door clicking shut behind him. Miles stood there long after, coffee forgotten, chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
Behind him, Carter’s voice drifted softly from the bedroom, "Kev gone?”
“Yeah,” Miles answered, "Didn’t wake you, did we?”
“Nah,” Carter appeared a moment later, hair messy, eyes still soft with sleep. He crossed the kitchen and pressed a kiss to Miles’ shoulder without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Miles let himself breathe as he wrapped an arm around Carter, grounding himself in the warmth, the weight, the here.
-----------
Iron Sharpens Iron
Las Vegas, Nevada
Late Night
The gym was empty in the way Miles preferred.
No music pumped through the speakers. No mirrors crowded with people checking themselves. Just fluorescent lights humming overhead, rubber mats scuffed by years of use, and the faint metallic smell of sweat and disinfectant that never really left a place like this.
Miles, believe it or not, liked it better when the room didn’t watch him back....most of the time.
He wrapped his hands slowly, methodical, the tape pulling tight around knuckles that were still a little tender if he pressed too hard. He ignored that part. Pain was familiar. Pain was honest. Pain didn’t lie to you about what you were capable of.
The heavy bag swung slightly as he nudged it with his shoulder, setting it in motion.
Brandon “F’N” Hendrix wasn’t the reason he was here tonight....Miles knew that.
Hendrix was a stop. A speed bump. A message written in someone else’s blood if it came to that. Useful, necessary, but not the point. Still, Miles smiled to himself as he rolled his shoulders and took his stance.
“Cheeky bastard,” he muttered under his breath, thinking of his brother.
LJ had handled the aftermath of that cheap shot from Hendrix exactly the way a Kasey would, grinning through the chaos, refusing to shrink, turning indignation into fuel....and dropping his drawers in front of an international audience that made him the talk of the town for 2 weeks plus some. Miles had watched the footage more than once, not out of concern, but out of something closer to pride.
Once a chav, always a chav.
They just learned when to aim it.
Miles drove his first punch into the bag, hard, clean, snapping the chain overhead taut. The bag swung back and he met it again, rhythm settling in. Each strike echoed in the empty gym, sharp and final.
Hendrix liked to posture, liked to swing big and loud, and liked to make moments messy and personal. The kind of bloke who thought escalation was the same thing as dominance.
Miles had fought men like that his entire life.
He pivoted, elbow cracking into the bag, then followed with a knee that made the chain rattle. Sweat broke across his shoulders almost immediately, shirt clinging as heat bloomed under his skin.
“Should’ve kept your hands to yourself,” Miles said aloud, voice steady between breaths, "The Bill Barnhart match wasn’t your business.”
Another strike, followed by another.
“You made it our business.”
The bag swung wide. Miles let it. He let it come back at him like a threat and stepped inside it, smothering it with a brutal combination that left his forearms buzzing.
He paused then, resting his forehead briefly against the bag, breathing deep.
LJ’s face flickered through his mind, not hurt, not shaken, but ready. The same look Miles had worn once upon a time when the world thought it could take a bite out of him and walk away clean.
Miles straightened and went to the weights.
The barbell was already loaded heavily. He didn’t check the plates again. He didn’t need to. He lay back on the bench, hands wrapping around the cold steel, and pressed.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
His muscles burned. His chest screamed. He pushed anyway.
Because Hendrix wasn’t the real audience.....Alex Jones was.
Miles sat up after the set, breath rough, sweat dripping down his temples. He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt and stared at his reflection in the darkened mirror across the gym.
Alex would be watching Climax Control. Of course he would. The teacher just couldn’t help but stand there measuring, judging and waiting for cracks to appear in front of him.
Waiting to see if Last Man Standing was bravado or prophecy.
Miles snorted quietly, "Don’t worry,” he said to the empty room, "I know you’re watching.”
He stood and paced, rolling tension out of his neck. The gym felt smaller when he stopped moving, like it wanted him in motion or not at all. He grabbed his phone from his bag and checked the screen. A message from LJ sat unread, timestamped a few minutes earlier.
Miles opened it.
LJ: You better not break him too badly. I still want my turn.
Miles laughed, the sound bouncing off concrete walls. He typed back with sweaty thumbs.
Miles: I’ll leave you a little something. Can’t promise he’ll be pretty.
He hesitated, then added:
Miles: Proud of you, by the way. Keep being annoying. It suits you.
The reply came almost instantly.
LJ: I learned from the best.
Miles shook his head, smiling despite himself, and tossed the phone back into his bag. He moved to the ropes next, practicing footwork, light on his feet despite the weight still clinging to his limbs. Every movement was sharp, intentional. There was no wasted energy and no theatrics.
This wasn’t about showing off. This was about reminding the world, and himself, who handled the grown-up problems when they stopped being games.
Brandon Hendrix would get the lesson first. Alex Jones would get the reminder.
Miles wiped his hands on a towel and glanced once more at the heavy bag, still swaying gently like it hadn’t quite recovered. After a few he sat on the edge of the bench, forearms resting on his thighs, hands still wrapped. Sweat drips off his knuckles and hits the mat. He doesn’t look at the camera at first.
When he does, it’s steady.
“Brandon ‘F’N’ Hendrix.”
A breath through his nose. Almost a laugh.
“You know what the funny thing about you is? You think you matter right now.”
He leans back slightly, rolling his neck.
“You swing on my brother after a match because you apparently desperately needed attention announcing your return with authority. You needed your name attached to something with heat, something with blood, something that made people stop scrolling and look twice. And congratulations, mission accomplished.”
He nods once.
“But here’s where you miscalculated.”
Miles’ eyes harden.
“You thought LJ was the target. You thought he was the lesson. You thought because he smiled, because he joked, because he handled it with that cheeky little grin we Kaseys are known for... that he wasn’t taking you seriously. And you thought I wouldn’t take it personally.”
He leans forward now.
“Let me be very clear with you, Brandon. You didn’t start a feud with my brother. You volunteered to stand in front of me.”
Miles exhales slowly.
“I have to admit, I’ve watched you for a while. You’re loud, you’re reckless and you hit hard and you hope that’s enough to scare people into backing down. You call it intensity. You call it being ‘real’.”
He shakes his head.
“I call it lazy. You want to be the guy who makes a moment ugly. You want to be remembered as the bloke who doesn’t care about consequences.”
Miles’ mouth twitches.
“That’s adorable, bruv.”
He sits up straighter.
“Because here’s the difference between you and me: I care very deeply about consequences. I just choose them. I’m still paying for them even with some still not being around.”
His voice lowers.
“Climax Control isn’t about teaching you a lesson. It’s about correcting a mistake. And that mistake was you thinking you could touch my family and keep walking.”
He lifts one wrapped hand, flexes it.
“And mate, I’m not going to rush you. I’m not going to brawl for the sake of noise. I’m going to take you apart in a way that makes sense, piece by piece, until that ‘F’N’ in your name starts feeling real personal. I promise my brother I’ll leave a little bit of you left. I’m a man of my word.”
His eyes sharpen again.
“But understand this, Brandon, whatever version of you walks into that match? He is not walking out the same.”
Miles finally leans back, gaze drifting just off-camera.
“And Alex Jones?” A slow, knowing smirk, "I know you’re watching. You always are.”
He looks back to the lens.
“This isn’t me warming up. This isn’t me blowing off steam. This is me reminding the world what happens when you mistake my patience for softness.”
He stands.
“So Brandon....you wanted attention.”
Miles turns away from the camera.
“Congratulations. Ya got it, mate. In spades.”
