I don’t want him to think I’m prying. I’m not trying to dig into wounds he isn’t ready to open. I just want to know everything there is to know about him. He’s quiet for a moment and I think maybe he’s not going to answer me until he clears his throat, rubbing at his eyes.
“It’s the day my parents got married.” His voice is quiet, almost distant, like he’s somewhere else entirely. “They were my best friends. Their love…it showed me what real love was supposed to look like. They never gave up on each other. Not once. They fought, obviously, because everyone does, but they always found their way back. They were loyal to each other. They chose each other every single day.”
His voice cracks slightly, and I feel him tense beneath me. It’s like he hates that I’m seeing this side of him. The broken pieces. But he knows mine. He knows the darkest parts of me.
“What happened to them?” I ask softly.
His jaw tightens before he finally answers. “They died in a car accident.”
My heart sinks.
“They went to the Redwoods for their anniversary in December. I was in high school, so they left me home.” His thumb brushes slowly over my arm, almost like he needs the distraction. “My dad wasn’t used to driving in the snow. They were coming down the mountain, and he hit a patch of ice. The car slid, and he lost control.”
He pauses. “They went off the cliff.”
The room feels impossibly quiet after that. I don’t know what words could possibly make something like that hurt less. How do you comfort someone who lost the two people who taught him what love was? How do you fill a space that big?
When I lost my mom, people always said they were sorry. They told me how much they loved her and how much they cared, but it never felt real. Because if they loved her so much, why didn’t they help her? Why did they look away every time a new bruise appeared or pretend not to notice the pain she was carrying right in front of them?
They weren’t sorry. Not really.
The only thing anyone ever said that made sense was that she was in a better place. And honestly, I think any place would have been better than the hell she lived in. Even somewhere I couldn’t follow her.
But listening to Miles talk about his parents, the way his entire face changes when he remembers them, I can’t help but believe they’re still together somehow. Maybe that’s what soulmates really are. Maybe they don’t just find each other once, but over and over again no matter what happens.
“At least they weren’t alone,” I whisper.
I press a soft kiss to his chest, right over the tattoo that carries their memory. My fingers lace with his, holding onto him as tightly as I can.
“They had each other. Until the very end.”
His eyes flick down to me, and I can see the sadness there.
“I’m just sorry you had to go through it alone.”
A humorless laugh escapes him, and he looks away.
“It definitely felt like I was alone,” he says, his fingers tightening around mine. “I lived with my Uncle Benny after that. He was a piece of shit. Still is, actually.”
I don’t interrupt, just listen, because I now know what it feels like to have someone finally hear the things you’ve been carrying.
“But I’m not alone now.”
My breath catches when he lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. There’s something different in his expression now—something softer.
“Now I have you.”
Miles humsquietly to himself as he moves around the kitchen, completely at ease. I’m perched on one of the bar stools at the island, elbows resting against the cool countertop as I watch him cook like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.
He’s already crisped the potatoes until they’re perfectly golden, grilled the asparagus, and now he’s standing over the stove with two thick steaks, basting them with butter, garlic, and fresh herbs.
How could one man be so damn perfect?
In all my life, I never expected a man would cook for me. Growing up, my father always expected my mom to do everything. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, literally anything to do with the house, it was her job to make sure it was done. I always thought that was the way life was supposed to be. The man does whatever while the woman does everything else for the home.
Miles doesn’t seem to believe in any of those gender roles. He cooks because he enjoys it, cleans as he goes, and doesn’t expect me to lift a finger. He’s out here breaking every rule I grew up believing, and somehow he makes it all look effortless.
He carries our plates over a few minutes later before grabbing two beers from the refrigerator. He sets one in front of me along with a perfectly cooked steak, roasted potatoes, andasparagus before taking the stool beside mine. The plate looks like something I’d order at an expensive restaurant.
