CHAPTER 21
MIA
Getting to know Abby turned out to be fun after all —not so much Kyle. He’s grumpy and makes Zane look like a ray of sunshine, honestly. I almost wish I could’ve asked about Audrey, but I know Zane doesn’t want much contact with his family for some reason. I understand. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready.
I glance over at him, fast asleep, with Figaro curled up beside him. Zane is hugging the tuxedo cat like he’s a stuffed animal, his fingers lightly twitching in his sleep. The two of them have been spending a lot of time together. At first, I thought Zane would be reluctant, but now? They’re practically best friends.
A sudden vibration shatters the quiet. Zane’s phone.
I freeze.
I shouldn’t peek. I really shouldn’t. But curiosity is a terrible thing, and before I know it, my gaze flickers to the screen.
Carter: Are you still mad at me?
Carter: Come on, man. Lara’s coming in a week. I don’t want this atmosphere between us.
Carter: I said some shit to Mia, but I was… fucked up. I’m gonna apologize.
Carter: I don’t want to lose you.
I stare at the messages, my mind racing. I never told Zane everything Carter said to me. Not because I was protecting him—at least, I don’t think so—but because I didn’t want to make things worse between them. And yet, here Carter is, sounding... different.
Vulnerable.
I glance at Zane’s peaceful face, the tension that’s usually there smoothed out in sleep. Carter’s words linger in my head. I don’t want to lose you.
Who was Carter talking about? Was he afraid of losing this Zane—the one sleeping next to me, hugging a cat—or the Zane he’s always known, the one who buries himself so deep in his own silence that it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking?
My thoughts spiral, landing on something unexpected.
Marriage.
Carter had talked about it, and I’d gotten curious—looked it up. Apparently, normal people wait years before getting married. That was news to me. Marriage had always been explained as an imposition, something I should do, until suddenly, I wasn’t worthy of it. Then it became off-limits.
During my research, I came across a forum thread titled:
"Why You Should Never Marry a Man Before Fucking Him."
The discussion underneath was… fascinating.
One person said: Imagine ending up like Samantha from Sex and the City crying in a bathroom because his dick is small.
That alone made me want to watch the show. Mental note: add it to the list.
But in my case, it was too late for that, wasn’t it? I definitely married Zane before I fucked him.
The way these people talked about sex was strange, almost like it was something good. Not an obligation. Not something to be endured. I’d heard some girls at the brothel say they had preferences—certain clients they actually wanted because they knew how to make them cum. That idea was foreign to me.
To me, sex had always been a necessary evil. Something to get through. Something to tolerate until it was over.
And yet, here were people basing their entire concept of marriage on it.
Others in the thread had different takes. Some said they needed a man who would treat them like a princess, do whatever they wanted, never say no.
I liked that one. Sounded reasonable.
Still, I understood now why marrying someone after knowing them for a short time was considered weird in normal society. I’d only known my fiancé for a few hours before I killed him. Compared to that, marrying Zane was practically slow and steady.
A low, groggy voice pulls me from my thoughts.
“What’s eating you up inside?”
Zane’s eyes are barely open, heavy with sleep, but he’s looking right at me.
Figaro is gone. I was so lost in my own head, I didn’t even notice him leave.
I hesitate before answering. “Carter is texting you.”
His jaw tenses. “I’m not going to answer him.”
I nod. I’m not about to defend Carter—I honestly want him to fuck off. But something he said lingers, gnawing at me. The way he made it sound like I’d forced myself on Zane. And I need him to know, need to say it out loud.
“I think you should know,” I begin carefully. “We didn’t have sex the night we got married. So… you can rest easy.”
Zane blinks at me, slow and groggy. “No?”
There’s something in his voice—something almost… fragile.
“No,” I confirm.
His brows furrow slightly. “But you were basically naked. In my bed.”
“You threw up on my clothes, and I was too tired to change,” I say, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “I figured maybe I could sleep like that.”
“Oh.”
Silence settles between us. I pick at the fabric of the blanket, unsure how to phrase what’s on my mind. My voice comes out softer than I intend.
“Can I ask you something?”
Zane shifts, adjusting his face mask. “You can ask me anything, Mia.”
I swallow. “Would having sex with me have been that bad?”
The playfulness drains from his expression. I push forward before I lose my nerve.
“I mean, I know I told you about my past. And… sometimes I wonder if that’s a problem for you. Or if you just don’t want me that way.”
Zane’s eyes darken. “Mia.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach twist.
“Trust me. Wanting you is not the problem.”
I blink. “No?”
His jaw flexes. “No. I just… I could never do it sober.” His voice is quiet, almost hesitant. “But what scared me most was thinking I had. Because I don’t want to be drunk when it happens with you.”
My chest tightens.
“We don’t have to do this,” I say. “I don’t really care about sex. I tried it because I thought it might please you. And I wanted to please you. But I don’t think it works for me.”
Zane studies me, his expression softening. Then, he reaches out, fingertips grazing my cheek.
“When you kissed me, did it feel good?”
His voice is husky, sending ripples down my spine. My skin tingles, my stomach doing weird, fluttery things.
“Y-Yeah,” I mumble.
His lips twitch. “Then don’t give up yet. Maybe you’ll feel good with the right person.”
I hesitate. “But you said you can’t.”
“I can’t right now.” His voice drops lower. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to try. With you.”
I swallow. “Why?”
He smirks. “Because you’re crazy. I like crazy girls.”
I slap his arm. “Idiot.”
He chuckles, then leans in, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
His voice is softer when he speaks next. “Because you understand me, Mia. And because when I’m with you… I don’t feel alone.”
His words echo mine from the day we kissed.
Then, out of nowhere, he asks—“Has anyone ever made you cum?”
My cheeks burn. “No,” I mutter, looking down.
Zane’s smirk fades. His voice is quiet, almost solemn. “Then don’t worry. I’ll learn to be the man who deserves to be your first.”
The afternoon sun spills through the cracks in the curtains, lighting up the room with a warm, golden glow. I’m stretched out on the couch, the bowl of buttery popcorn still perched on my lap, as the voices of Sex and the City fill the air. It’s been a whole day since I started watching—almost done with the first season now—and I’m totally hooked. What began with a random GIF on the forum has turned into this fun, slightly chaotic obsession. Honestly, I’m kind of thinking I could base my whole personality on them. Why not, right? Life’s too short not to channel a little Carrie Bradshaw energy. After all, it shouldn't just be about killing people, right? I'm kind of determined to change that. I'm a changed Mia.
My feet are tossed to the side, and every time I bring a piece of popcorn to my mouth, the salty, buttery smell fills the air. Across the room, Zane is bent over his sketchbook, headphones on—probably listening to some Blackpink song—his charcoal gliding smoothly across the paper in precise, measured strokes. He doesn't say anything, focused as ever, and I don't speak either. I just watch.
Then, he mumbles something about dead headphones and sets them down on the table next to him.
I’ve noticed something about Zane. He has this quiet appreciation for Asian culture. I remember him once mentioning that he and Abby used to watch anime a lot when they were younger. He misses it, but it’s not the same without her.
I turn my gaze back to the screen, where Carrie’s walking down the streets of New York in a tight dress and stilettos, her voiceover narrating some epiphany about relationships. I chuckle softly when Miranda throws a sarcastic comment, but I don’t turn to see if Zane reacts. He’s immersed in what he’s doing, and I enjoy the soft sound of the pencil on paper in the background.
But then, slowly, I notice his focus start to slip. The cadence of his lines becomes more spaced out. He’s still drawing, but he’s not as absorbed as before. I glance at him—he’s not looking directly at the TV, but his eyes shift subtly, as if he’s listening involuntarily.
I say nothing.
The episode continues, and without me realizing it, Zane moves. First, just a slight shift in the way he holds his notebook. Then a more direct glance at the screen. Eventually, he turns his body slightly toward the TV, resting his elbow on the arm of the couch—like he’s not really watching, but not ignoring it either.
I pretend not to notice.
Time passes, scene after scene, the sound of charcoal on paper filling the room. Then, a comment from Samantha makes Zane let out a breath of laughter—low and short.
I turn to him, watching sideways. “You laughed,” I say, my voice quiet but full of amusement.
He doesn’t look up from the drawing. “No.”
I smile. “Yes, you did.”
He pretends to be indifferent, but he’s no longer drawing. His fingers are still holding the charcoal, unmoving. Realizing it, he drops the pencil onto the table and leans closer to me. The couch sinks a little under his weight.
I expect a sarcastic remark, but he just watches me.
His shoulder brushes against mine lightly, a natural movement as he settles in. His tension starts to dissolve, and I realize his breathing is syncing with mine.
Minutes pass, and without even thinking about it, my hand slides across the popcorn container and brushes his. Neither of us pulls away immediately. My fingers linger just a second longer than necessary before I pull the popcorn to my mouth.
The corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly.
I smile but say nothing.
Zane stays quiet, his eyes fixed on the screen. The episode continues, but then—out of nowhere—he asks, “Is this guy an asshole?”
I glance up at him, surprised. “Which one?”
He points with his chin at the screen, where Carrie’s arguing with Big.
“I think so.” I pop more popcorn in my mouth.
He frowns. “Why?”
I shrug. “Because he is clearly playing her.”
He stares at me for a beat, then looks back at the TV. The episode continues, and I can tell he’s actually paying attention now. He doesn’t even realize he’s leaned forward a little, eyes narrowed.
“What about this?” he gestures to Miranda, who’s rolling her eyes at Charlotte’s random comment.
“Miranda? She’s a good character.”
He nods slowly, taking it in.
Minutes later, another question.
“Does she stay with him?” He gestures to Charlotte, who’s having an awkward dinner with the guy.
"I have no idea! I’m just as clueless as you—first time watching too!"
“Oh.”
I laugh, throwing my head back. “You’re actually watching, huh?”
He doesn’t answer. He just crosses his arms again and pretends not to care.
The episode ends, and as the credits roll, I turn to him with a mischievous smile. “Do you want me to go back to the beginning?”
Zane immediately shakes his head. “No.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you sure? You seem pretty invested.”
“I’m not.”
“Really?” I tilt my head. “So if I turn it off now, you won’t be left wondering if Carrie will finally get over Big?”
He opens his mouth to respond but hesitates, then frowns deeper. “I don’t care.”
I bite my lip to suppress a laugh. “Okay then.” I grab the remote and pretend to turn off the TV.
Silence.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye and see him frozen, trying to pretend he doesn’t care. But his gaze is locked on the screen, as if he’s still processing the last scene.
I smile slowly. “I think I’ll let one more go.”
Zane doesn’t say anything. He just leans back on the couch, grabs some popcorn from my bowl, and keeps watching.
The next episode begins, and this time, Zane doesn’t bother pretending he’s not watching. He’s not holding his sketchbook anymore, not looking away like he has something more important to do. He just... accepts it.
And I love it.
At first, he reacts quietly—a groan when Carrie messes up, an eye roll when Big opens his mouth. But when Samantha appears on screen, dressed to the nines and delivering one of her iconic lines, Zane lets out a real laugh.
I turn to him immediately. “You laughed.”
He shakes his head but wears that almost-smirk that gives him away. “She’s funny.”
My eyes narrow. “You like her.”
He shrugs. “She’s the only sensible one here.”
I clap my hands like I’ve won the lottery. “Yes! Exactly! She’s the best! She doesn’t have time for this nonsense, she just lives her life!”
He nods slowly, considering. “And she can’t stand unnecessary drama.”
“She really can’t handle it!” I point at the screen. “She’s the only one who says what needs to be said, and I respect her for that.”
“She is my favorite.”
My mouth drops open. “Zane, that was so fast.”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “She deserved it.”
I burst out laughing, and he shakes his head, though I can tell he’s enjoying himself. He starts making dry, pointed comments, and it only gets funnier.
Carrie starts to over-dramatize about Big again, and Zane just lets out a sound of pure disgust. “Is she stupid?”
“Quite a lot.”
“Hasn’t she realized yet that this guy is trash?”
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I kind of think he’s cute.”
He stares at me, genuinely shocked. “For God’s sake, Mia, you have terrible taste in men.”
“Okay, husband,” I laugh sarcastically, emphasizing the word husband , and he rolls his eyes, continuing to eat and watch.
Then Samantha comes on screen, delivering an iconic line about how no one has time for emotional games, and Zane points at the TV.
“See? She’s the only one who’s any good.”
I laugh so hard I almost drop my popcorn. “Zane, you’ve officially become a fan. It’s over.”
He mumbles something but doesn’t deny it. And honestly, that’s the best part.
We’re comfortably sunk on the couch when, out of nowhere, I remember something very important.
“Pause!” I shout.
Zane flinches, squinting his eyes. “What the fuck was that?”
I’m already leaning over to grab the remote. “I have face masks.”
He blinks slowly, as if I just spoke in another language. “And?”
“And we need to make one.”
He stares at me, then glances at my hand as if expecting me to be joking. I’m not.
"No."
I roll my eyes, already standing. “Stay there, I’ll be right back.”
I hear a resigned sigh as I run to the bathroom, rummage through my things, and grab the clay pots. When I return, he’s still in the same position, arms crossed, expression grim.
I smile and sit right in front of him. “Close your eyes.”
"No."
I open one of the jars, sinking my fingers into the cool texture of the mask. “Come on, it’s just clay. You’ll thank me later.”
He sighs deeply, as if he’s about to make the greatest sacrifice of his life, but eventually, he closes his eyes.
I take advantage of the moment, running my fingertips over his face, spreading the mask carefully. I feel his skin warm under the cold clay, and my touch is light, almost a caress.
Silence stretches between us, and before I know it, I’m smiling. He notices.
“What is it?” he murmurs without opening his eyes.
“Nothing. You just look like a spa babe.”
He opens one eye, peering at me suspiciously. “If you take a picture, I swear—”
“No pictures,” I promise, raising my hands in a peace sign. “Just memories.”
He sighs again, but this time, it’s different. More resigned.
Once I’m done, I apply the mask to myself, much less carefully than I did to him, and then plop back down on the couch. I rest my chin on my hand, watching him blink a few times, getting used to the drying clay.
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “What now?”
“Now we wait twenty minutes.”
Silence.
Then, with a dramatic sigh, he leans back, picks up the remote, and dryly says, “Unpause.”
I burst out laughing and rest my head on his shoulder, satisfied. He pretends not to like it, but he doesn’t pull away either.
The warmth of his body against mine is comforting, and for a moment, I just sit there, savoring the sensation. The episode continues, but my attention is no longer on the screen. I know Zane pretends not to care, but the silence between us is different this time. It’s heavy, as if we’re waiting for something.
My breathing slows, and I notice his does too. His fingers, which had been relaxed on his leg, flex subtly as if they want to move. My heart jumps, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of every inch of space between us.
I slide my head a little further onto his shoulder and glance up at his face. The clay is already starting to dry, making his skin feel stiff, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the way he’s trying to avoid looking at me.
Then he does look.
And it’s different from before.
His eyes lock with mine, dark and unreadable, and for a moment, it feels like time slows. My chest tightens, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t speak. He just stares.
I move without thinking, turning slightly toward him, and his hand finally relents, sliding softly over my leg, hesitant but there. My heart beats too fast. Everything feels like it’s about to—
And then, exhaustion hits me like a wave.
It’s not a normal sleep. It’s a heavy, inevitable shutdown. My eyes blink slower than they should, my head feels heavier on his shoulder. I try to take a deep breath, fight it off, but it’s useless. My body goes limp, and consciousness slips away like sand through my fingers.
I hear Zane murmur my name, distant at first, but then closer, filled with concern.
“Mia?”
I want to answer. I want to reassure him, tell him that this happens sometimes, but my mouth can’t keep up with my brain. My body gives way, sliding further against him, and a second later, I lose all control.
The world fades away.