I watch her go, that familiar ache blooming in my chest again.
All night, she floats through the room as she belongs to every moment—laughing with Max, cooing at the baby, teasing Finn about his terrible playlist. She’s everywhere yet somehow always at the center of it all.
And me? I’m hopelessly, irreversibly drawn to her.
Later, when the crowd thins out and the laughter fades, I walk Max and Delaney to the door. Caroline’s already fast asleep in Laney’s arms.
“Good night, man,” Max says, clapping my shoulder. “That was a great party. Miranda is a hell of a host.”
“Yeah, she is.” I think of her role in Anna’s life, how she plans Anna’s day down to the minute during work days. She’s had a lot of practice, sure, but something about the way she does it makes you feel cared for. It’s a nice feeling. I glance over my shoulder at her, still tidying the kitchen, her hair falling loose around her face.
When the last guest leaves and the apartment finally goes quiet, I find her sitting on the couch, sipping the last of her wine.
“Successful night,” I say, leaning against the doorway.
“I’d say so,” she replies with a tired smile. She pats the seat beside her. “You look tired. Come sit.”
I drop down next to her, our knees brushing. The faint hum of a song still plays from the speaker.
“Thanks for tonight,” I say. “It meant a lot to have everyone here. I haven’t hosted since I bought the place. It was about time.”
Her gaze softens. “Of course. It was fun. You guys deserve it—you’ve been killing it this season.”
I shrug, suddenly aware of how close she is. “Still. You didn’t have to go all out like this.”
“I wanted to,” she says simply.
And that’s the thing about Miranda. She never makes a big display of it, but she chooses to show up—for people, for moments, for me.
The room is quiet again, and she leans her head back against the couch cushion, closing her eyes. I could sit here for hours just like this—watching her, memorizing the way the light plays over her skin.
I should go to bed. I should look away. But I don’t.
She must feel my stare because she turns her head and opens her eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing, really,” I respond with a cowardly lie.
“Clean up tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
She sets her empty wineglass on the coffee table. “I’m too tired to get up,” she says, plopping back onto the sofa.
I stand. “I got you.” I grab her waist and lift her from the couch.
She squeals, laughing. “What are you doing?”
Tossing her over my shoulder, I hold her thighs—resisting the urge to smack her butt—and start toward her room. She giggles out some empty protests, but I keep walking. “If my bestie is tired, then I will help her.”
Her front dangles behind me, and she slaps my butt. “By carrying me like a caveman?”
“Hey, there’s no complaining when one is being carried.”
“You’re insane.”
“Thank you.”
I stop at the entrance of her bedroom door and set her down. Her face is red from hanging upside down. She wobbles on her feet and steadies herself against the doorframe.
