Chapter Twenty-Five
Julian
Miles opened the door to his apartment and waved me inside like it was the most natural thing in the world—like dragging a shattered, miserable person into his safe little world wasn’t strange at all.
I hesitated for just a second, taking off my shoes because I could hear my mother’s voice in my head about not dragging dirt into someone’s home. Some habits die hard.
The space smelled faintly of vanilla and fresh laundry. Of course it did.
The walls were pale and warm, sunlight spilling in even at this late hour, touching every surface like it was invited to stay.
There were pictures on the walls—actual framed photos.
Some with people. Smiling. Laughing. His family, probably.
Not fake paparazzi shots or staged glossy posters like the ones haunting my own cold apartment.
It was... cozy. Cluttered but not messy. Lived-in. Like him.
God. Even his apartment was nice.
Of course it was.
I was about to comment—something sarcastic, probably—when I heard it.
The clacking of nails on hardwood. Quick. Eager. Too late to move. A golden blur came charging down the hall like a cannonball with fur.
“Sunny—wait!” Miles called out, a useless warning because suddenly there were two massive paws on my chest and something heavy and warm breathing right in my face.
I stumbled back, catching myself on the wall as this... this beast wagged its entire body against me like we were lifelong friends reunited after war.
I blinked down at the dog. She grinned up at me. Actually grinned. “What the hell—” I muttered, trying to shove her gently off. Sunny just huffed, tail thudding like a drum against the wall.
Behind me, Miles choked back a laugh. I could feel his grin burning the back of my head.
“Sorry,” he said between snickers. “She thinks everyone wants to hold her.”
I glared over my shoulder at him, scowling. “Control your animal.”
Miles held up both hands in surrender, a shit-eating grin on his face. “You’re on your own, man. She’s unstoppable.”
The dog—Sunny—sat, tongue lolling out of her mouth, tail sweeping across the floor like a broom. Still staring at me. Like I was something special.
God, what was with this dog?
I shifted awkwardly, brushing dog fur off my jacket.
I don’t like dogs. I don’t like mess. I don’t like slobbering happy things that expect something from me. Especially this golden cotton ball with legs.
But Sunny stayed. Sat. Smiled. Her stupid tail kept wagging.
I sighed. Loudly. Then cursed under my breath. “Fine. Damn dog.” I crouched slightly, reaching out—and scratched behind her ear.
Her tail went berserk.
Miles snorted behind me. “Told you. No one survives Sunny.”
I flicked a glare at him but...
It was impossible to be truly pissed. Not with this warm, soft thing pressing into my hand like I was worth something. Like I was safe.
No one had ever looked at me the way this dumb dog did. Like I wasn’t broken. Or disappointing. Or needing to be fixed. Just... me.
Sunny gave a soft, pleased little huff and leaned into my touch. And against every bitter bone in my body, I smiled. Just a little.
Maybe Miles wasn’t the only sunshine problem I had anymore.
The screen door creaked open behind Miles as he let the dog out into the backyard.
“Go on, Sunny. Don’t tear up the flowers,” he called softly.
Sunny bounded outside with the kind of reckless joy only a dog could manage, tail wagging, paws slapping the patio.
Miles left the door cracked open. “Just in case she wants to come back in when she’s ready,” he said, wiping his hands on the sides of his jeans.
A quiet settled between us. Not uncomfortable. Not like the hotel silences I used to fill with pretending I didn’t care. This one...was warm.
Miles turned back to me, smiling like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like I belonged standing here in his kitchen. “You hungry?” he asked. “I can make something. Or we could order, but homemade is better. Less fake, you know?”
Before I could answer, he slid a soft, worn book across the counter toward me—a little frayed at the edges, pages curled and stained. A family cookbook. “Pick something,” he said. “I know how to make every single one of these. My mom would disown me if I didn’t.”
I glanced down at the pages. Chicken Parmesan... Pot roast... Tacos...
It was strange, holding something like this. A book that smelled like kitchens and years and memories.
I flipped, slow and careful, like I was touching something private. I didn’t even realize I stopped until my thumb rested on creamy garlic pasta with rosemary bread.
“That one,” I said, clearing my throat. “Looks easy enough for you, right?”
Miles grinned wide, pushing off the counter. “A man of good taste. You’re gonna love it.”
He moved easily, grabbing pans, garlic, and fresh rosemary from a little pot on the windowsill. Real things. Things you had to touch and smell. Not hotel trays covered in plastic. Not cold salads Victor demanded.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed tight, pretending I wasn’t watching him.
But I was.
His hair flopped into his face as he chopped, tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth in focus. Like this mattered. Like I mattered, somehow, just standing here watching him make food for me. He hummed something—some stupid, gentle melody I couldn’t place—but it made my chest tighten.
I hated this.
The way my body warmed. The way I wanted this to mean something.
He filled the kitchen with life without even trying.
And I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
I caught myself staring when he glanced up, giving me a soft, knowing smile like he saw right through me. “Hey, don’t look so worried,” Miles said, still grinning. “I haven’t burned pasta since I was twelve. You’re safe.”
I didn’t answer. I just shook my head, looking down at the recipe book again. My fingers traced the worn edge of the page.
Safe.
That was the worst part.
With him, for the first time in forever... I actually felt safe. And I didn’t know what the hell to do with that.
I must’ve been staring too long.
Miles glanced over his shoulder, catching me with that crooked smile of his. The one that said he knew exactly what I was doing.
“If you’re gonna stare,” he teased, “you’re gonna help. Here.”
He held out a knife.
I raised an eyebrow, debating a snarky comeback—but nothing came. Maybe because I didn’t want to ruin this strange, quiet space. Maybe because I didn’t mind the idea of being closer.
Without a word, I stepped around the counter, slipping in beside him. Too close. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. He smelled like rosemary and soap and something sweet. Like his house. Like him.
Miles noticed. His grin deepened but, for once, he didn’t make some loud joke out of it. Just handed me a cutting board and a clove of garlic.
“Here,” he said again, softer this time. “You ever chopped garlic before?”
“No,” I muttered. “I don’t usually cook. People do it for me.”
“Figured.” He nudged my hand gently, correcting the way I held the knife. “Thumb tucked back or you’ll slice it off. And I like your hands the way they are.”
I rolled my eyes but didn’t pull away. “Fine, chef,” I muttered, slicing awkwardly.
He watched me for a moment, satisfied. Then...
“All right, your turn. Ask me something.”
I blinked. “What?”
“We’re doing this. Getting to know each other. You pick. No backing out now, Vale.”
I sighed dramatically, glancing sideways at him. “Favorite song right now?”
His face lit up. “That changes every hour. But—uh—probably ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’ The Elvis one. Don’t laugh.”
I didn’t. Of course that would be his answer. Sweet, simple, painfully genuine.
“My turn,” Miles said, pretending to focus on stirring but grinning secretly. “First album you ever bought?”
I hesitated. “Backstreet Boys.”
That made him laugh. Loud and honest. “No way. You’re joking.”
I shook my head, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. “My mom gave me money. Said I could pick anything. I thought they looked cool on the cover.”
“God, that’s adorable.”
“Shut up and keep cooking,” I muttered, but I didn’t mean it.
Miles bumped his hip against mine. “Okay. Your turn again. Make it a good one.”
I hesitated, slicing slower than necessary.
“How did you get Sunny?” I asked.
His face softened. Then a smile grew, as if he was remembering the moment.
“I went to the shelter,” he said. “And she was the one no one wanted. Which was weird because everyone wants a golden retriever. But at the time, both her legs were broken. I think people just didn’t want to deal with that.
I decided the moment I saw her, she was coming home with me.
And I named her Sunny because well, she still has that personality despite what happened.
Although I get the feeling she doesn’t remember. But I knew I needed to help her.”
I glanced at him. The way he stirred the sauce, shoulders loose, like this wasn’t hard to admit.
“You’re easy to listen to,” I muttered without thinking.
His hand paused. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
He grinned. “Liar.”
I huffed, shaking my head. “Fine. Your turn.”
Miles tapped the spoon thoughtfully, eyes dancing. “Biggest fear?”
I stiffened. My grip on the knife tightened.
“I...don’t know,” I lied. “Failure, I guess.”
His gaze lingered. Like he wanted to ask more. Like he already knew there was something darker sitting under that answer. But—fortunately—he let it go. “My turn,” I said, clearing my throat. “Do you always talk this much?”
Miles laughed. “Yeah. Nervous habit. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I glanced sideways, pretending to check the garlic but really watching him. “It’s not the worst thing about you.”
“Oh? And what is?”
I smirked, slicing the last of the garlic with shaky, uneven pieces. “You hum when you chop onions.”
He barked out a laugh. “Busted.”
And God help me—I almost smiled for real again. Once was already too much.