“I know. You’ve only mentioned it twenty times.” He smiles shyly, then holds out a bottle of wine. “Red?”
I’ve never done this with anyone. The casual domesticity. Pizza and wine and talking about our days, like we’ve been doing this for years.
All the small, boring, beautiful details of just existing together.
“Looks fancy.”
He chuckles. “It’s good.”
“Then let’s do it.”
We carry everything to the living room without discussion. It’s become our spot—sitting on the floor with our backs against the couch, plates on the coffee table, knees bumping against one another.
The wine is good. Or maybe I just think it’s good because I’m happy and Miles is home.
“Tell me about your day.” He takes a sip of wine. “New song?”
“Yep.” I launch into the play-by-play, and he listens. That warm half-smile on his face the entire time I ramble, taking bites of pizza between sentences.
Gracie wanders over and tries to swat at the slice on Miles’s plate. He gently redirects her, and I swear she scowls.
“This may be the first day I’m not tempted to punch that guy in the nose,” he says when I tell him how confident Boone was about the song.
“No nose punching needed.” I giggle, pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol, and he shrugs.
“When do I get to hear it?”
I take another sip of wine. “Probably never.”
“Hey.” He reaches over and tickles my side. I squeal and attempt to twist away, but he catches me, fingers firm on my waist. “If it’s your big hit, you can’t stop me from listening on the radio.”
“I can try.”
But I won’t be able to, will I? I won’t even be here.
I drink more wine to drown out the thought.
He studies me, then asks, “What’s it about?”
“I’ll never tell,” I singsong.
I’ve never written a song about someone before. I don’t know how he’d react to knowing he’s in every line. I’d spent years searching for my muse, and it turns out I just needed… Miles.
Okay, I won’t give himallthe credit. I’m sure some of it is due to Boone. But most of all, it’s due to me. For not giving up. For pushing through when self-doubt tried to take me out. But Miles’s unwavering support—even when his logic wasn’t exactly sound—has been there since he ran into me at Citgo, steadying me.
“C’mon, give me something.” He thumps his head back against the couch cushion.
I shift to face him and end up in his lap, knees straddling either side of his hips. His hands settle on my waist, and I loop my arms around his neck. “It’s about feelings I’m not ready to name yet.”
I might have the words, but they feel too fragile to share. Like I need to sit with them, roll them across my tongue, let them grow until they’re so big they can’t be contained inside me.
His gaze flicks across my face, as if he can read what I’m not saying. I’m not sure what he finds, but whatever it is makes him kiss me. Slow at first. Then deeper, urgent.I kiss him back harder. His hands slip under my shirt, warm against my skin. I rock against him, and he groans.
“Summer.” He tugs at my shirt, and I nod.
As soon as it’s over my head, my lips find his again, but he pulls back. His gaze drops to my chest.
“Pink,” is all he says.
