“Deal.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
MIRANDA
The furnace hums through the house, a low, steady purr beneath the quiet. Outside, snow flurries tap against the windows. Inside, the TV's glow paints the room in soft blues and silvers. The night feels easy.
“Okay, Sunshine,” Miles says, sinking into the couch beside me with a throw blanket and a bowl of popcorn. “Dealer’s choice. What are we watching?”
I tuck my legs under me, scrolling through the endless grid of thumbnails on the streaming service. “Something that doesn’t make me cry or require brainpower. My brain is tired.”
He leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. “So no true crime, no Oscar-bait dramas, no documentaries about dying sea otters.”
“There are no documentaries about dying sea otters,” I snort.
“There are documentaries about dying everything. Trust me. I guarantee there is.”
I furrow my brows. “I’m still skeptical, but sure, let’s skip those. So basically that means a comedy or Superheroes.”
“Oh, Marvel always wins.” He grins, his voice low, amused. “It’s cinematic therapy.”
“Hmm,” I hum, scrolling slowly, pretending I’m focused on the titles instead of the warmth radiating from his body. We’ve sat this close before—airplanes, hotels, press lounges—but tonight feels…different. Denser somehow. Like the space between us is charged with something I shouldn’t name.
He nudges my knee with his. “You’ve been hovering over that one for a solid minute. Decision paralysis?”
I glance at the highlighted title—an action comedy I’ve already seen twice—and shrug. “It’s fine. It’s easy.”
“Easy’s good.” He takes the remote gently from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. Just that single graze sends a zip of heat up my arm.
God help me, I feel every inch of this man.
As the movie starts, Miles sinks lower into the couch, spreading out like it’s his natural habitat. I try not to notice the way his arm stretches casually along the backrest—close enough that if I leaned back, his fingers would graze my shoulder.
I shouldn’t lean back. Yet the pull is too strong. Giving in, I lean back. Just a little. Just enough that I can feel his warmth at the edge of my skin.
“You comfortable?” he asks, voice a little rougher now.
“Mm-hmm.” I don’t move.
For the next thirty minutes, the movie fills the silence—fast dialogue, explosions, the predictable rhythm of a plot neither of us really care about. Miles comments under his breath now and then, just enough to make me laugh. When I do, he glances at me like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.
It’s disarming. I don’t know what to do with that look.
When the hero makes a bad decision, I groan and toss a handful of popcorn at the screen. One piece bounces off his shoulder instead.
“Hey!” he protests, catching one midair and throwing it back. “Friendly fire!”
“You deserved that.”
“I did not.” He’s laughing, the deep kind that fills the room. He reaches for another handful of popcorn—and somehow, his hand brushes my thigh.
Neither of us moves for a second.
Then he clears his throat, turns back to the TV, and the moment passes. Almost.
The air doesn’t reset. It just hums louder.
