Chapter 29
Drew
Two weeks slipped by before I even realized it.
Two weeks of waking up with Miguel in my bed, in my space, in my life—like it had never been any other way.
I hadn’t planned for that first night to become every night.
But after we made love for the first time—after we said the word boyfriends out loud—and he fell asleep with his arm heavy over my waist and his breath warm against the back of my neck, something in me loosened that I didn’t know was clenched.
And it never tightened again.
By the time December eased itself into L.A.
—that soft, chilly edge the city barely knows what to do with—he had practically moved in without either of us naming it.
He still had his own apartment, technically.
But every evening, it was my door he walked through.
Every night, it was my sheets he slipped beneath.
Every morning, it was his shoulder I blinked awake against.
I never asked him to stay.
And he never pretended he was leaving.
It just… happened. The way sunrise happens: quietly, then suddenly the world looks different.
He’d leave his hoodie draped over my chair.
His guitar leaning against the couch. A half-finished bottle of cologne on my dresser.
Tiny pieces of him rooted themselves in the corners of my home until the place stopped feeling like the quiet bunker I’d built for myself… and started feeling like ours.
The strangest part was how natural it felt—this rhythm, this nearness, this steady presence I hadn’t realized I craved. We had crossed a line two weeks ago, and instead of panic, all I felt was a kind of peace I hadn’t known in years. Maybe ever.
Some mornings I’d roll over and catch him watching me, hair rumpled, eyes soft with a warmth that made something in my chest pull tight in the best way. Other mornings he’d tangle his legs with mine as if reclaiming the space sleep had stolen from us.
And every morning I found myself thinking the same thing:
How the hell did I get this lucky?
How did I go from believing that part of my life was over—dead and buried with my wife and daughter—to this?
To laughter in my kitchen. To music drifting down my hallway.
To hands on my waist and lips on my neck and the steady, certain truth that Miguel Rodriguez wanted me.
Chose me. Came back to me every night without being asked.
Some days it scared me.
Most days it saved me.
All of it—the brushing teeth side by side, the shared coffee mugs, the way he hummed when he cooked, the way he kissed me goodnight and good morning like the two moments were equally sacred—felt like a life I never saw coming but suddenly couldn’t imagine living without.
And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.
Because love was loud.
But this—this quiet, everyday belonging—was louder.
The morning light was just beginning to smudge the sky when we stepped outside.
Early December in L.A. meant a soft bite in the air—cool enough to make you tuck your hands into your sleeves, warm enough that your breath never quite fogged.
The mist hung low along the hedges, giving the street that blurred, quiet look like the world hadn’t woken up fully yet.
Miguel stretched his arms overhead and let out an exaggerated groan.
“You stretch like my abuela,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “And you walk like someone who skipped leg day.”
He gasped—loudly, dramatically—then nudged my shoulder. “Bold words from a man who warms up like a senior citizen.”
“You started it.”
He laughed—soft, bright. One of my favorite sounds.
We set off down the block. Not running—my knee didn’t allow that—but a brisk walk we’d fallen into like muscle memory. He could’ve jogged the whole trail, probably even sprinted it, but he never made me feel slow. He matched my pace like it was the only pace that mattered.
Sometimes our hands brushed. Sometimes our shoulders did. None of it felt accidental.
We cut toward the ridge path that curled behind the neighborhood—quiet, tucked between houses and eucalyptus trees, mostly forgotten by anyone except dog walkers and the occasional retiree getting steps in before sunrise.
The earth smelled cool and faintly sweet, and when the wind shifted, I caught the faint, minty tang of crushed leaves under our shoes.
As we climbed, the sun pushed up over the horizon in a slow wash of gold.
Miguel stopped at our usual place—the flat stretch overlooking the rooftops and a sliver of ocean in the distance.
I still wasn’t used to having a “usual place” with someone again.
But somehow, in the last two weeks, this spot had become ours.
He lifted his phone.
“Hold still,” he said. “One day we’re gonna want proof we looked this good at 28 and 40.”
“I look like someone who got four hours of sleep,” I said.
“Exactly,” he grinned. “That’s the good part.”
He leaned into me as he snapped the selfie—my stubble brushing his temple, his hair still sleep-mussed, both of us lit by the first orange flicker of sun. When he pulled back to look at the photo, the soft way he smiled at the screen did something warm and aching in my chest.
Miguel lifted his phone. “Okay—one more.” Snap. “And another. The sun’s doing good things to you right now.” Snap.
He showed me the screen, scrolling.
“Send me that one,” I said, tapping the shot where we both looked half-asleep, but ridiculously half-happy too. He did.
We headed back toward the street, our pace slowing as the neighborhood started to wake around us. A cyclist whipped past, a dog barked somewhere down the block, and a breeze carried the scent of sugar and spice—comforting and familiar.
“Coffee?” Miguel asked.
“When have I ever said no to caffeine?”
We went to the corner café—a small place with fogged windows, mismatched chairs, and a barista who gave us a sleepy nod from behind the counter.
We ordered espressos and slid into a booth by the window.
He sat close—closer than friends could get away with—but far enough that anyone watching would think we were just talking about morning practice.
Under the table, his knee brushed mine. Once. Then again, on purpose.
“Talked to Manu last night,” he said, taking a sip.
“Yeah?”
“Elena made me a good-luck card.” His whole face softened. “She drew me in full goalie gear… but with a superhero cape.”
I laughed. “She’s adorable.”
“She’s trouble,” he corrected gently. “But yeah. Adorable trouble. And smart too. I’ve gotta show you—Manu sent a video.
” He pulled out his phone and showed it to me—his niece dancing in her backyard, curls bouncing, yelling something about “Tío Miguel saving the world.” His arm pressed against mine the entire time.
“You adore her,” I said.
“Yeah,” he murmured. Then, quieter: “I want to be someone she’s proud of.”
A beat passed. Something warm settled low in my chest.
“You ever think about having kids someday?” I asked.
He considered it for a moment. “Yeah… I could see it. If life lined up right.” He tapped his cup. “I’d want to love them the way Manu loves her, the way our parents love us. No fear in it.”
I nodded.
But the question lingered between us, heavy with a different kind of truth.
“I always thought I’d have more than one kid,” I said. My voice came softer than I meant. “We tried for years before my wife finally got pregnant. And after the crash… it felt wrong to imagine another child.”
I paused, swallowing.
“My daughter’s frozen in time. Five years old. Missing front tooth. Pink sneakers. Sometimes I can’t imagine something beyond that without feeling like I’m replacing her.”
Miguel didn’t touch me—not here—but he shifted closer, his arm pressing fully against mine.
“You’re not replacing her,” he said quietly. “Love doesn’t shrink. It changes shape.”
The words hit deep. Deeper than he knew.
“She’s part of you, Drew,” he continued. “Nothing you do now replaces her.”
I inhaled slowly, like he’d opened a window somewhere inside me.
“Sometimes it’s hard to believe I get to have a future.”
“You do. One step at a time.”
We sat there a while with two cups cooling on the table, morning light spreading across our joined shadows.
Then my phone buzzed.
Instinctively, I flipped it over.
A message preview stared back at me.
It was PR asking to schedule a quick meeting tomorrow. Nothing unusual.
Miguel glanced at me.
“All good?”
“Yeah. Just work stuff.”
We walked home in thoughtful silence. The sun had risen fully now, warming our backs. As soon as the front door closed behind us, I stepped behind him, slid my arms around his waist, and let my forehead rest against the back of his shoulder. He melted into me instantly.
“Shower?” he asked, voice low.
I nodded.
The steam rose around us, wrapping us in warmth. We washed each other slowly—fingertips over shoulders, soap sliding over skin, soft laughter echoing against tile. His thumb traced circles along my hip; my hands brushed through his damp hair.
Everything slowed, quiet and warm around us.
Just the two of us, choosing each other again in the quiet.
When we finally pressed close—skin to skin, breath against breath—it wasn’t about urgency. It was about tenderness. About how he touched me with a softness that made my chest pull tight. About the way I held the back of his neck like I’d found something I never thought I’d have again.
We moved together slowly, reverently, the water warm around us.
After, we dried off and fell into bed still warm from the shower, bodies loose, breaths syncing as we drifted into that soft afterglow.
For a little while longer, the world could wait.