Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
MIRANDA
The furnace hums through the house, a low, steady purr beneath the quiet. Outside, snow flurries tap against the windows. Inside, the TV's glow paints the room in soft blues and silvers. The night feels easy.
“Okay, Sunshine,” Miles says, sinking into the couch beside me with a throw blanket and a bowl of popcorn. “Dealer’s choice. What are we watching?”
I tuck my legs under me, scrolling through the endless grid of thumbnails on the streaming service. “Something that doesn’t make me cry or require brainpower. My brain is tired.”
He leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. “So no true crime, no Oscar-bait dramas, no documentaries about dying sea otters.”
“There are no documentaries about dying sea otters,” I snort.
“There are documentaries about dying everything. Trust me. I guarantee there is.”
I furrow my brows. “I’m still skeptical, but sure, let’s skip those. So basically that means a comedy or Superheroes.”
“Oh, Marvel always wins.” He grins, his voice low, amused. “It’s cinematic therapy.”
“Hmm,” I hum, scrolling slowly, pretending I’m focused on the titles instead of the warmth radiating from his body. We’ve sat this close before—airplanes, hotels, press lounges—but tonight feels…different. Denser somehow. Like the space between us is charged with something I shouldn’t name.
He nudges my knee with his. “You’ve been hovering over that one for a solid minute. Decision paralysis?”
I glance at the highlighted title—an action comedy I’ve already seen twice—and shrug. “It’s fine. It’s easy.”
“Easy’s good.” He takes the remote gently from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. Just that single graze sends a zip of heat up my arm.
God help me, I feel every inch of this man.
As the movie starts, Miles sinks lower into the couch, spreading out like it’s his natural habitat. I try not to notice the way his arm stretches casually along the backrest—close enough that if I leaned back, his fingers would graze my shoulder.
I shouldn’t lean back. Yet the pull is too strong. Giving in, I lean back. Just a little. Just enough that I can feel his warmth at the edge of my skin.
“You comfortable?” he asks, voice a little rougher now.
“Mm-hmm.” I don’t move.
For the next thirty minutes, the movie fills the silence—fast dialogue, explosions, the predictable rhythm of a plot neither of us really care about. Miles comments under his breath now and then, just enough to make me laugh. When I do, he glances at me like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.
It’s disarming. I don’t know what to do with that look.
When the hero makes a bad decision, I groan and toss a handful of popcorn at the screen. One piece bounces off his shoulder instead.
“Hey!” he protests, catching one midair and throwing it back. “Friendly fire!”
“You deserved that.”
“I did not.” He’s laughing, the deep kind that fills the room. He reaches for another handful of popcorn—and somehow, his hand brushes my thigh.
Neither of us moves for a second.
Then he clears his throat, turns back to the TV, and the moment passes. Almost.
The air doesn’t reset. It just hums louder.
I cross my legs and focus on the screen, but the plot is background noise. What I’m hyperaware of is everything else—the way his arm shifts behind me, the faint brush of his sleeve against my hair, the scent of his cologne mixed with buttery popcorn and clean laundry.
He leans closer to whisper something about the movie, and his breath skims my ear. Goose bumps ripple across my skin.
He must notice because his voice drops. “Cold?”
I shake my head, barely managing words. “No. I’m good.”
“Good,” he says, and that one word lands somewhere deeper than it should.
A quiet scene fills the screen, all music and stolen glances between the leads. I don’t need the subtitles to know what they’re thinking—I can feel it in the silence, the same way I can feel Miles watching me instead of the movie.
“You’re not watching,” I whisper.
“Neither are you,” he murmurs back.
“We should’ve probably chosen a movie we hadn’t both seen several times already,” I say.
“Yeah, I blame you.”
I scoff. “What?”
He laughs. “You chose it. I mean, if there is someone to blame, it’s you.”
“No, you chose it,” I argue.
“Only because you were hovering over it for a minute straight. It was clear you wanted to watch it.”
“Was it now?” I cross my arms and turn to him. “As the self-proclaimed movie buff, I would’ve thought you’d have a better suggestion for our roomie movie night.”
“Seriously?” He chuckles. “You work in the movie industry, Miranda. You’ve got to have opinions.”
I shrug. “Eh, I really only care about Anna’s movies. I’m not an expert in any other ones.”
His knee presses into mine again, a small, warm point of contact that makes my body entirely too giddy.
Miles is… well, Miles. Attractive, funny, endlessly kind.
That’s nothing new. What is new is the quiet between us now—the kind that hums with awareness.
Maybe it’s just the new living arrangement, the shift in boundaries, the way the couch feels smaller than it used to. Perhaps I’m imagining it entirely.
I stretch my arms above my head, feigning a yawn, and subtly shift a few inches away. I need space—not because I don’t want to be near him, but because I do. Too much.
It’s just going to take time, that’s all. We’ve been friends for months, but being roommates… It changes things. Living together means learning each other’s rhythms, figuring out the new normal. That’s all this is—adjustment.
When the movie fades into credits, neither of us moves. The light from the screen bathes his profile in gold, softening the sharp edges.
“So,” he says quietly. “Roomie movie night success?”
I nod, my voice thinner than I intend. “Yeah, I mean—it could’ve been worse. At least we liked the movie.”
“Good. The next one should be something new. It’ll make it more exciting.” His smile tilts, boyish and sincere. “I like this. Hanging out. You're here.”
The warmth in my chest catches me off guard.
“Yeah,” I manage, my throat tight. “Me too.”
“I told you it’d be great,” he says with a grin.
“Yep, you told me.”
I grab the remote as the next movie’s countdown starts on its own. “Nope,” I say quickly, clicking out of it. “We are not watching another sequel I’ve already seen five times.”
Miles leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Agreed. Fresh start. Let’s find something neither of us has seen.”
“Something new,” I emphasize. “No reboots, no spin-offs, no superhero origin stories.”
“So basically nothing from the past ten years,” he teases.
“Exactly.”
He scrolls through options, muttering commentary to himself. “Romcom… pass. Alien thriller—hard pass. Historical drama about the Titanic, but make it French—absolutely not.”
I laugh. “You have strong opinions for someone who was just willing to watch a two-hour car chase earlier.”
“Hey, car chases are cinematic art.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He pauses on a new indie-looking film. The cover is just two people sitting on a bench under string lights.
“What about this?”
“What’s it about?”
He reads the description aloud. “Two strangers stuck in an airport overnight share stories, secrets, and pizza. It’s supposed to be funny and a little sad but hopeful in the end.”
“That actually sounds… promising.”
He glances over at me, smiling. “See? Teamwork.”
“Teamwork,” I echo—and before I can hit play, his stomach growls loudly. Cartoonishly loud.
We both freeze. Then I burst out laughing.
He throws his hands up. “Okay, that was not subtle.”
I pause the TV and set the remote aside. “Come on. Let’s go get food.”
He follows me into the kitchen as the overhead light clicks on. We start perusing the refrigerator and cupboard contents. We’ve gone shopping a few times now to stock the kitchen, yet the inventory still looks like a grocery haul curated by a distracted five-year-old.
I prop my hands on my hips. “Okay, Chef Keller. What should we make?”
He squints into the pantry. “Hmm. Nothing is calling out to me.”
“We could input our ingredients into one of those recipe apps, and it’ll give us some options,” I suggest.
“We could…” he says slowly.
“Or…” I grin.
He grins back, eyes glinting. “We order Chinese.”
I chuckle. “Chinese it is!”
“I think that’s what the app was going to tell us anyway.”
“Absolutely.” I nod, my lips twitching upward.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and starts scrolling. “Do you want your favorite?”
“What’s my favorite?”
His gaze lifts from the screen. “Sesame chicken with fried rice and a side of crab rangoons.”
My heart twists. “How did you know that was my favorite?”
“Because you’ve ordered it every time we’ve gotten Chinese.”
“It’s just weird that you remember that.”
“Of course I remember.” He taps his temple with a small, proud smile. “I remember everything about you.”
I swallow hard, unsure how to respond.
He continues quickly, his tone easy. “I mean, that’s what friends do. I’m sure Anna knows your Chinese order.”
“Yeah, probably,” I say, though my voice sounds thinner than I want it to.
Returning his focus to his phone, he finishes placing the order. “It’ll be here in thirty minutes.”
“Oh, did you get extra—”
He cuts in with a knowing grin. “Hot mustard and sweet and sour sauce to dip your rangoons in? Yes.”
I can’t help but smile widely. “You really are a pretty good roommate.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Should we start the next movie while we wait?” I ask.
He gestures grandly toward the living room. “After you, Sunshine.”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide my smile as I brush past him, feeling the faint warmth of his arm as I do. It’s barely anything—just the kind of ordinary touch that shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
Everything about Miles matters to me.
And I’m doing my best not to think about why.