CHAPTER 22 #4
I filled a pot with tap water, setting it on the gas stove, the blue flame clicking to life with a familiar, comforting hiss.
I stood there, watching the bubbles slowly form at the bottom of the pot, the steam rising to coat the small window above the sink.
I took my time, stirring the red sauce in a separate pan, letting the rich, savory scent of garlic and crushed tomatoes slowly fill the apartment, systematically pushing out the heavy weight of the day.
It was a quiet, introverted form of love—an unspoken promise that even if the future was destroyed, I would make sure she survived the next hour.
Twenty minutes later, the food was ready. I walked into the bedroom, balancing two ceramic bowls of pasta and two glasses of water on a small plastic tray I had found under the sink.
Miley had moved from the living room; she was sitting cross-legged in the center of Kelly’s spare bed, her back pressed against the wood of the headboard, her arms wrapped around her knees. The room was dark, save for the pale, silver glow of her tablet resting on the mattress beside her.
"I made some pasta," I said softly, stepping into the room with careful, quiet steps. "It’s nothing fancy, just marinara, but it’s hot."
Miley looked up, the savory aroma of the food hitting her nose, and for the first time all day, a tiny, almost imperceptible shift occurred in her expression. Her stomach let out a low, betraying rumble. "Thanks, Angela. Um... you didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to," I said, sliding onto the edge of the mattress and setting the tray between us. I handed her a fork, our fingers brushing for a fraction of a second, her skin finally carrying a hint of returning warmth.
We ate in a long, comfortable silence. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she took her first hesitant bite, her jaw working slowly before she swallowed.
She didn't eat like the confident, hungry girl I had known; she ate mechanically, purely for survival, but the hot food seemed to clear a bit of the ash-tinted gray from her complexion.
"It’s good, Angela," she whispered, setting her half-empty bowl down on the tray, a faint, exhausted smile gracing her lips. "You... you actually have some skills in the kitchen."
"My mom made sure I learned," I smiled softly, the tension in my shoulders releasing just a fraction. "She always said food is the only thing that can talk to a broken heart when words fail."
Miley let out a soft, genuine sigh, leaning her head back against the headboard. Her gaze drifted across the room, her eyes softening as a sudden, random memory seemed to touch her mind. "Hey... how is Max doing?"
I blinked, completely caught off guard by the question. "Max? He’s... he’s good. He was looking for you this morning, actually. He kept sitting by the door like he was waiting for you to walk through it."
A gentle, bittersweet chuckle escaped Miley’s throat, her eyes glistening with a soft, affectionate light. "Man... I love that little guy. Why didn't you bring him over, Angela? He would’ve killed the vibe in this dark-ass room."
I managed a soft laugh, my heart doing a quiet, painful flip at how beautiful she looked even in the center of her tragedy. "Miley, I couldn't just pack my cat into a duffel bag and bring him to a stranger’s apartment. Kelly would’ve lost her mind if she came back to cat hair on her sofa."
"Next time," Miley murmured, her voice dropping into a sleepy, heavy register as the weight of the day’s exhaustion finally caught up with her body. "Next time, you gotta bring him. Promise me."
"I promise," I whispered softly.
To keep the returning darkness at bay, I reached over and tapped the screen of her tablet, pulling up her Netflix app. "You want to watch something? Just to get your mind off the loop?"
"Yeah," she breathed, her eyelids drooping slightly. "See if they have the remaining episodes of The Order. We never finished that season."
I queued up the fantasy drama, the familiar, dramatic theme music filling the small bedroom with a low, comforting cadence. I moved the food tray to the floor, sliding back against the pillows so I was sitting right beside her.
As the episode played, the fictional world of magic and secret societies bounced across the walls of the dark room, a completely irrelevant distraction that was exactly what we needed.
Ten minutes into the show, Miley’s head began to tilt.
Her breathing slowed, turning into a deep, rhythmic pattern that indicated her brain had finally shut down from the sheer overload of trauma.
Slowly, effortlessly, her body leaned sideways, her head coming to rest gently right in the center of my lap. Her long box braids spilled across my jeans, a heavy, beautiful weight that anchored me to the mattress.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat as my heart began to pound against my ribs with a terrifying, overwhelming velocity.
I looked down at her face. In her sleep, the lines of terror and grief had smoothed out, leaving her looking fragile, innocent, and heartbreakingly beautiful under the silver light of the screen.
I reached down, my fingers trembling as I gently, slowly threaded them through the top of her braids, clearing a stray strand from her forehead.
I am falling for you, I thought, the realization echoing inside my soul with the force of an absolute, devastating certainty. I am falling for you so hard, Miley Palmer. It’s a straight-up emergency.
But as I looked at her, the memory of the horrific broadcast from last night rushed back into my mind.
Miley was broken. Her heart was a shattered ruin, haunted by the double ghosts of Alicia and Terra, terrified that her love was a weapon that destroyed anyone she let close.
If I told her how I felt—if I screamed my love out loud into this quiet room—the fear would drive her away forever.
She would see me as the next target of her imaginary curse.
I leaned my head back against the wall, my hand continuing its slow, rhythmic stroke through her hair as the television screen flickered in the dark.
I would keep my heart a complete, absolute secret.
I would wear the mask of the supportive friend, the quiet introvert who just happened to make good pasta, for as long as she needed me to.
I would hold her while she slept, because being the secret sanctuary for a broken Miley Palmer was infinitely better than walking through the world without her at all.