Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Sienna
I flip through the cocktail menu halfheartedly as I sip the Mai Tai I ordered when we arrived at the oceanfront restaurant. It’s sweet and cold on my tongue, but it does nothing to ease the knot in my chest.
I’m annoyed, and the appetizers haven’t arrived yet.
Wedged between Mom and Aria, I feel like I have no room to breathe. Dad sits on Mom’s other side, so I’m trapped in the parental crossfire with no escape. Across from me, Milo flicks through the menu and talks quietly with Ethan about what to order.
He’s in a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top button undone just enough to reveal the shadowed line of his throat.
Firelight catches there whenever he swallows or speaks.
And whenever he reaches for the breadbasket or lifts his whiskey, the muscles in his forearms shift deliciously.
I can’t stop noticing. I hate that I can’t stop noticing. My heart stumbles stupidly every single time, and I’m pretty sure he knows it. I mean, come on, no one’s forearms are that distracting by accident.
Rolling my shoulders, I take another sip and try to tune in to the conversations around the table. My eyes, however, keep drifting back to Milo—to the way his mouth curves when he listens, the way his fingers tap absently against the table, and those mouthwatering muscles.
“Sienna, honey,” Mom leans in, her hand covering mine. “You look really beautiful tonight.”
I glance down at the emerald slip dress I threw on—thin straps showing just enough cleavage, a low back dipping dangerously, and a thigh-high slit flashing tanned skin with every shift.
It’s the kind of dress that says, “I’m here to feel alive,” not “I’m ready for an intervention” that I know is coming.
“Thanks, Mom,” I manage a smile. “You look beautiful, too.”
She pats my hand again. “We just want you to be happy, honey, especially with your sister’s big day coming up so fast.”
For fuck’s sake, here it comes.
Dad clears his throat. “Honey… we’ve been talking.”
I set my glass down carefully and exhale through my nose. “We who?”
Mom and Dad exchange one of those loaded parental glances, then Mom presses on. “We love how free-spirited you are. We really do. But you’re almost twenty-seven, Sienna. We’re not saying you need to get married yet—”
Aria lets out a small, unapologetic laugh. “Keyword: yet. I mean, I’m doing it next week… so try not to steal the limelight I’ve spent years planning.”
Mom shoots her a warning look. “Aria.”
“What?” she shrugs innocently. “I’m just saying peer pressure is a powerful thing.”
“You think I’d ever give in to peer pressure?” I raise a brow.
“Well… no,” she answers, pausing to sip her wine. “But I know for a fact that if we’d chosen Vegas for our wedding destination, you’d already be halfway to some neon chapel, marrying a total stranger just to tell Mom and Dad to fuck off and stop pressuring you to settle down.”
Facts.
“Aria.” Dad scowls.
Mom lets out a deep breath. “We’re not saying that. But maybe it’s time to think about roots. Stability. Finding someone who can actually keep up with you.”
My jaw tightens, the familiar defensiveness twisting hot in my chest.
“I have roots,” I reply, my voice low. “They’re just… portable.”
Dad leans forward, elbows on the table. “We’re worried you’re moving too fast and that no one’s ever going to catch up. And with Aria getting married, we can’t help but think about your future too.”
Not this again. Not the “you’re too much, slow down, find someone safe” speech I’ve heard on repeat since I can remember.
I’ve heard it every time I booked a one-way ticket on a whim, and every time I politely declined the “nice boy” they tried to set me up with because he wanted a white picket fence and I wanted the horizon.
I force a tight smile. “I’m happy. I’m living… isn’t that what you always said you wanted for me?”
Mom lets out a long, bone-deep sigh—one that means she’s already picturing me at forty, single, surrounded by designer shoes and with no one to share quiet nights with.
“We did,” Dad says quickly. “And we’re proud of you. But happiness can look different now than it did a few years ago. We just want you to be open to possibilities.”
My eyes flick across the table before I can stop them. Milo is watching me with that quiet, steady gaze that feels like he’s peeling back every layer of sarcasm and deflection until he reaches the raw part of me that’s truly listening.
Our eyes lock, and heat coils low in my belly—not the usual playful spark. This is heavier. Slower-burning. The kind that makes my skin feel too tight, and my breath catch. Seconds pass before I tear my gaze away and force my attention back to my parents, my heart thudding too loudly in my ears.
“I’m open,” I murmur. “Promise. Just… on my timeline.”
Mom smiles gently. “That’s all we ask, honey.”
“And if that timeline happens to include a nice young man who can keep up with you…” Dad pauses, eyes drifting meaningfully toward Milo. “…then we’ll wait.”
Mom gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “We just want you to be loved, Sienna. That’s it. And maybe find someone who makes you want to stay put for a bit.”
My throat closes as the words land heavier than they should.
I get it… I’m chaotic, restless, and allergic to staying in one place too long because motion is the only thing that’s ever made me feel truly alive. But I’ve been in New York for over a year, and for the first time in forever, the urge to run hasn’t hit.
There’s this strange magnetic pull to the city—like maybe I’ve finally found a place that could hold me without suffocating me. And sitting here, I’m starting to wonder if the same could be true for a person.
The thought terrifies me.
Because if I let myself want that—if I let myself want stability—what happens when the restlessness comes roaring back? When the horizon starts screaming louder than any promises of quiet nights? When I wake up on some random Tuesday and staying still suddenly feels like the walls are closing in?
Maybe I’m not broken for wanting both: the electric rush of new cities and the quiet safety of a life that doesn’t require me to keep running. Maybe there’s a version of “settled” that doesn’t mean suffocated.
Or maybe I’m lying to myself. Maybe the second I stop moving, I’ll panic and sabotage everything because chaos is easier than admitting I might be capable of staying.
I don’t know.
All I know is that the usual panic hasn’t set in yet. Standing still doesn’t feel like drowning right now. It just feels… unfamiliar.
And unfamiliarity is scary as hell.
“We love you is all, honey.” Dad murmurs, leaning across Mom to place his hand over mine.
“I love you guys too,” I whisper, pushing my chair back. The legs scrape across the deck, sending shivers up my arms. “I just… I need some air that isn’t laced with concern.”
My heels click across the wood as I head toward the railing a few feet away.
The breeze is cooler here, a sharp contrast to my flushed skin.
I lean against the railing, arms crossed tightly over my chest, and stare at the black water as waves crash and retreat, sending sea spray misting against my skin.
Footsteps sound softly behind me, but I don’t turn because I already know it’s him from the cedarwood cologne. Milo stops beside me, close enough that I feel the warmth radiating off him.
“You okay?” He asks quietly.
I exhale through my nose. “They mean well.”
“They do.”
“They just… they want me to be someone I’m not.”
He’s silent for a moment, then steps an inch closer. “They want you to be safe.”
“I am safe.”
“Are you?”
“I’m happy,” I say, the words tasting like half-truth. “I’m free. I don’t need someone to catch me. I don’t need roots. I need… motion.”
He nods slowly. “I know.”
“Do you?” I turn toward him.
“Yeah,” he shifts to face me. “I know you’re scared of standing still. Scared that if you stop running, the world will expect you to shrink. To be quieter, easier, less… you.”
The words land like stones in still water, rippling through me and cracking open places I’ve kept locked for years. My eyes sting as my hands tremble on the railing.
I swallow hard. “I’m not scared.”
“You are,” his voice is soft, almost tender. “And that’s okay.”
I look away, staring out at the endless dark ocean. “You don’t know me.”
“You’re correct,” he answers. “But I’m starting to.”
My throat tightens as I glance back at the table. My family are laughing at something Ethan said, their faces bathed in the candlelight. Mom watches me, worry etched between her brows.
With a sigh, I turn back to Milo. “They think I need saving.”
“Do you?”
“No,” my voice drops to a whisper. “I just… I don’t want to disappear if I stop moving. I don’t want to wake up one day to realize I let someone make me smaller because it’s easier.”
He nods once. “Then tell them that.”
“It’s not that simple.” I whisper, my fingers twisting together.
He lets out the tiniest chuckle. “It never is. If my parents were still around, I know for a fact they’d be the same. They always wanted me to settle down, but I had dreams and things I wanted to achieve first.”
My eyes soften as I look at him. The moonlight catches the sharp lines of his face, making him look both strong and unexpectedly vulnerable.
“Your parents…” I trail off, not wanting to push.
“Passed almost four years ago,” he says quietly. Emotion flashes through those gray eyes—grief, acceptance, something raw that makes my chest ache. He blinks, and just like that, it’s gone.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I murmur sincerely.
He smiles, but it’s softer this time, almost gentle, before a familiar mask slides back into place, masking whatever storm is brewing beneath. “You don’t have to shrink for anyone, you know that, right? Not even for yourself.”
Something hot and fragile rises behind my eyes, a burn I haven’t allowed myself to feel in years. My throat tightens. For once, I don’t deflect. I don’t crack a joke or run… even though every instinct screams at me to bolt, to protect myself.
“I know,” I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves. I turn to face the ocean again, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes.
His lips curve. “Good.”
Silence settles between us, and after a long minute of feeling his gaze heat my side profile, I push off the railing and look at him.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Same difference.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible, Sienna.”
“Don’t I know it.”
He turns to face me fully and steps closer until the space between us disappears. I stare at him. He stares back. My gaze drops to his lips as his tongue drags slowly across them, and something flips low in my stomach… something I’ve never felt before. Something that has my body physically shaking.
“We should get back,” he says, taking a step back. “Appetizers are arriving.”
My throat feels too tight for words, so the only response I offer is a single nod. I follow him back to the table, where we settle back into our seats just as the appetizers arrive.