Walking was a fucking chore, as Miles stumbled towards a particular destination in mind. He had been overreacting about the breaking rib, but it didn’t hurt any less to breathe. He definitely looked like a mess and then some, and the looks he was getting from the people passing by only confirmed that it wasn’t just what he wasn’t feeling on the inside. But he couldn’t go home. Miles didn’t want to go home, because going home would mean going for round two with Jason, and for his Ma’s sake, he wouldn’t start another fight. For the kids’ sakes too. He wasn’t a hardass, Miles wasn’t; he loved his family, and that’s why he hated Jason so much.
He was at Cleo’s front door, hoping she would be home. And not ask questions. Oh why are you all bruised up? What can I say, sweetcheeks, I’m a fighter not a lover. Okay, maybe one question he was willing to answer. But why at Cleo’s front door? Simply because, after everything that had transpired in the days after their...dalliance, the man couldn’t help but feel like a kinship to the blonde, finding her company comforting, and the only one he needed right then.
Knocking, he tried to keep it casual, play off the bruises like a bad boy’s ruse and tried not to wince in pain as he leaned against the wall. “Hey girl, did you call for some bad boys with a side of your boyfriend?” Just because he was injured, didn’t mean Miles still didn’t want to flirt.