I smooth out the wrinkles in my dress and Miles buttons his pants, he slips the condom into a plastic baggie from his backpack and hands me a damp napkin. I laugh quietly. The man is absurdly prepared.
We wind our way back through the trees, doing our best impression of two people who were definitely just out for a wholesome walk. He plucks a piece of bark from my hair to hide the evidence. When we reach the main trail, another couple appears out of nowhere. Miles’s hand finds mine instantly, and he threads our fingers. We both school our faces into neutral expressions. Innocent, even. But if they’d lingered longer than thirty seconds, they’d know. And judging by Miles’s barely contained grin, he really doesn’t mind.
As the open field comes into view, he slows to a stop. “So… Does this mean we’re together? Like—boyfriend and girlfriend?”
I laugh softly. “Miles, I told you I love you. What do you think?”
He rubs the back of his neck, smiling, a little bashful. “Yeah, but this is new for me. I just… want confirmation.”
I step closer and cup his face, grounding him the way he always grounds me, and meet his gaze. “Miles,” I say, my heart steady for once, “will you be my boyfriend?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he shakes his head, smiling wider. “No.”
My heart stops—until he adds, “Because I want to be the one to ask. Will you be my girlfriend?”
I laugh, already nodding. “I would absolutely love to be your girlfriend.”
His mouth turns upward, and he presses his lips to mine. It’s the easiest yes I’ve ever given.
Thirty-Two
Naked Yoga
Miles
Whenever we have a sleepover, which is happening more and more lately, I wake up with nothing but a sheet because Nora steals the blankets. Every time. But she always stirs sometime before morning, tugs them back into place, and curls against me before drifting off again. Every morning, I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, smiling to myself, thinking, Yeah. This is my life now.
I still catch myself marveling at how much everything shifted in such a short span of time. How I’m no longer the guy who fumbles through dates. Sure, I still offer an interesting fact or two, but only when it fits, or when Nora actually asks. I’m not just a virgin anymore—I’m a boyfriend. Officially. Hers. And that feels even bigger.
Nora’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever known—smart, complex, beautiful, and most importantly, brave in ways that steals the air from my lungs. I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve her, but I know this: I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I’m worthy of the way she chose me. Even when work pulled me out of state for the first two weeks of us finding our way back to each other, she showed me that distance doesn’t mean disconnect. She introduced me to the magic of FaceTime, late-night laughter, and how to be intimate without being physically present. It was hot. I even proposed the idea of more FaceTimes even when we’re in the same house. Twice as hot.
And now I’m here. With her. We’re building small habits that are turning into promises. Morning coffee. Lunch dates. We’re choosing each other every day. She’s my everything, and this time, I’m not letting her run. And I forewarned her: if she does, I’ll chase her.
I pull open the door to the yoga studio and hold it for Nora and Diane. The scent of eucalyptus and rubber mats hits me immediately, along with soft instrumental music and lighting dim enough that—hopefully—no one can clearly witness my impending humiliation. Which is comforting. For me.
I glance around and lower my voice. “Okay. Just so we’re clear. This is group stretching.”
Diane grins as she unrolls her mat beside Nora’s. “It’s mindfulness, Miles.”
I nod. “I’m extremely mindful. I think about things constantly.”
Nora bites her lip, clearly fighting a laugh.
We settle onto our mats—Diane on Nora’s left, me on her right—and my body stiffens. Every joint locks into place as if my bones have been swapped out for two-by-fours.
The instructor glides to the front of the room, barefoot and serene. “Welcome, everyone. Today, we’ll focus on breath, balance, and releasing tension.”
I exhale. “Breathing: check.”
Nora leans closer. “Relax. No one’s grading you.”
“That’s worse,” I whisper. “I thrive on clear expectations.”
We start with deep breaths, arms overhead. Simple and straightforward. I follow along with the concentration of someone running a preflight checklist. Then the instructor cues a forward fold.
I bend at the waist, and my body immediately enters an error state and refuses to proceed. “Oh no,” I murmur.
Nora glances over. “What?”
