Hudson
I leaned back against the forest-green couch, its upholstery hugging me like it had a personal vendetta against lumbar support. My crutches rested crookedly on the floor, propped beneath the knotty pine table that glistened with condensation rings and candlelight. The entire place smelled like aged whiskey and citrus peel, but not in a try-hard way—more like a slow exhale in a wood-paneled study where secrets aged better than wine.
The glow of The Top of the Pines was deliberate. Everything was amber-toned and softened around the edges. A makeshift tree loomed from the center of the room, its canopy branching across the ceiling in a tangle of fairy lights, casting leafy shadows on our faces and making Miles look like something out of a modern-day fable—if the fable was about a perfectionist who alphabetized his pain and served it chilled.
I glanced at my glass—the third dirty martini of the night, here at this bar. Shaken hard, extra brine, just enough vermouth to pretend it was still part of the recipe. I caught Miles looking at his, the olive bobbing like it had nowhere else to be. His fingers curled around the stem delicately but not self-consciously. Not anymore. His shoulders, always drawn up like he was bracing for an invisible slap, had settled. His body had softened, somehow. Less posture, more person.
And then—just like that—he started talking about Owen.
No preamble. No witty segue or bitter joke to mask it. Just… truth, slipping out like it had been sealed too tight and finally burst at the seams. He talked about the betrayal, the shift in the air between them before either of them said a word. The way silence had grown teeth. The way love curdled quietly until one morning, you realize you’re sitting across the breakfast table from someone who’s already emotionally packed up and moved out.
It hit me somewhere under the ribs. Not in a melodramatic, Lifetime movie kind of way—but like the sudden awareness of breath when you didn’t know you’d been holding it.
Miles Whitaker. Vulnerable.
And I was sitting right next to him, close enough to hear the tremor he tried to bury beneath each syllable. Close enough to smell that lemony citrus cologne of his and see the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked like he was ashamed to feel this human in front of someone like me.
I didn’t say anything right away. Just reached for my drink, took a slow pull, and let the vodka scorch its way down like a poor man’s courage.
And God help me—I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
Not with a joke. Not with sarcasm. Not even with the casual, flippant bullshit I typically use to grease my way through uncomfortable feelings.
I just sat there. Beside him. Listening.
I didn’t expect intimacy, especially from him. From someone often labeled as being so composed and organized. But hell, here it was: raw emotion mixed with vodka and salt air.
“Fuck, Miles,”
I whispered when the piano player eased into a Lester Young ballad.
“That’s… heavy.”
My words were soft. Real.
“You deserve better.”
I swirled my olive-studded cocktail.
“And you know—punish me if I’m wrong—you’re a goddamn force, worth far more than some shiny suitcase.”
He looked at me then. Those sharp cheekbones relaxed just a hair. The lights from the faux-canopy above played on his skin like moonlight on the ocean. He let out a shaky laugh.
“Well—I never got to call him a suitcase.”
I chuckled. The sound felt strange—heartier than a smirk, softer than a laugh. It was… caring?
A dangerous concept.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
That was when it hit me: the many drinks of the evening; the noise of the bar became background—the laughter, the shuffle of chairs and shoes, the quiet squeak of the piano bench. All I could hear was Miles’ confession hanging in the air between us, down at my level.
My turn. I sighed, “Okay, well—my turn.”
I tipped back my cocktail with a slide of alcohol down my throat.
“Jackson Pierce. He was—”
I paused, juking a spin that felt too autobiographical for my taste.
“An actor, yeah. Pretty. Charming too. On-screen, he was winning. Off… he was a tornado.”
I tapped my glass.
“I was dumb. Dumb enough to think someone else could ride out the craziness and bad decision-making with me.”
Miles turned fully toward me, eyebrows arched, curiosity carved into his face.
“So. Scandal. Hookup snafu. Tabloids called it everything from ‘bad boy meltdown’ to ‘public breakdown.’ Ended in tears, publicized tears I’m not proud of.”
He swallowed, then reached out—just across the small drink table.
“That takes guts,” he said.
For a second, I was slick again. Then, I faltered. That’s the point where a few more martinis blur ego and emotion.
One. Two. Three.
We laughed together—laughter that was hushed by a nearby couple shushing us like toddlers at a symphony. We froze, exchanged apologetic smiles, and a moment later? “Sorry,”
we mouthed.
We sipped softer now.
Then, Miles chuckled, “This is… nice.”
He glanced at his empty glass.
“Let’s close this tab? Then… maybe a walk? On the beach, perhaps?”
I nodded, all warmth and recklessness in a single gesture.
“Let’s do it, partner. And don’t worry about my foot. I’ll make it work.”
I pulled out my crutch with a little groan—as if solidarity were pain—but kept the smirk.
“We’ve earned it.”
“Oh no! I completely forgot about your foot for a second. Maybe we should just catch an Uber back,”
Miles suggested.
I shook my head.
“No. Let’s do it. I don’t mind. Could use the refreshing air.”
“You sure?”
he checked for the final time.
“Positive,”
I replied.
He rolled up his sleeves, fresh waves of confidence washing over him.
“Should be like what? A thirty-minute walk to Ocean Drive. Sound depressing?”
I laughed.
“Sounds perfect.”
With the tab soon paid, we stood up—me stumbling, him steady. That light between us, soft as ocean foam, had shifted. The next chapter would begin with sea-sliced air, sand beneath our feet, and two men who’d swallowed their shields. And quietly started to trust.
There’s something about Rehoboth Beach at night that almost makes me believe in stupid shit like fate. The moon’s doing that thing where it pretends it’s a spotlight just for me—pale, theatrical, dramatic. It glints off the waves like a disco ball, and I swear I can hear the ocean whispering something cheeky. Or maybe it’s the three martinis doing the whispering. Either way, I feel buzzed and poetic, which is usually a sign I should shut the hell up before I do something ridiculous.
But ridiculous is exactly what I’m doing. Walking on damp sand next to Miles Whitaker, who’s still wearing those absurdly spotless loafers that probably cost more than a college student’s monthly apartment rental. The man somehow manages to look pressed and polished in a beach town after midnight. Me? I look like I just escaped a sex scandal and a Wal-Mart clearance bin—which, to be fair, is only half untrue.
Miles walks with purpose, like he’s trying to outpace some invisible anxiety. His hands are in his pockets, and he keeps glancing at the ocean like it’s going to offer answers. I shove mine into the pockets of my pants and match his pace, which is a bit of a challenge with my bandaged foot, but hey—pain builds character, right?
“I still don’t get why you left your own party,”
Miles says finally, his voice soft but edged with that perfectly pruned judgment he’s probably patented.
I shrug, kicking a shell out of the path.
“Wasn’t feelin’ it. You were more fun than a dozen shirtless guys who couldn’t spell charisma if it slapped their ass.”
He actually laughs, and I count that as a win. It’s not often I get to crack that frosty exterior. Most people are lucky if they get a polite chuckle. I just got an actual, honest laugh.
We keep walking, passing the skeletons of sandcastles and the occasional leftover flip-flop, casualties of someone else’s better night. There’s a breeze now—cool, salty, with a hint of whatever sexy cologne Miles wears.
“I’m not used to talking about… well, any of that,”
he says.
“The divorce. Owen. Everything.”
I nod, keeping my eyes ahead.
“You surprised me back there. I didn’t think you were the emotional share-your-tragedy-over-cocktails type.”
“I’m not,”
he says.
“But maybe I’m changing.”
“Or maybe,”
I offer, “I’m just that irresistible.”
He snorts.
“That must be it.”
We reach the stretch of beach just behind the Ocean Drive house. It’s still as immaculate as I remember. Lit just enough to look like a Pottery Barn catalog, even from the sand. Miles stops, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder cuff even though he’s literally been nowhere near a speck of dirt.
“Well,”
he says, turning slightly to face me, “thank you for not completely ruining my evening.”
And that’s when I do it.
Call it martini madness. Call it moonlight delusion. Call it an absolutely shit idea.
I reach out and grab his wrist. Gently—like, not horror movie wrist-grabbing, but just enough to stop him from walking away. His skin is warm, and his pulse jumps under my fingers. For half a second, he just looks at me. His brows twitch in surprise, but he doesn’t pull back.
So, I lean in and kiss him.
It’s not one of those raunchy club kisses that tastes like Red Bull and regret. No—this is soft. Stupid soft. Like a first kiss from a rom-com that ends with a montage and a string quartet. His lips are cool from the night air and slightly salty from the sea breeze.
I pull back before I can make it weird. Okay, weirder.
Miles blinks. He doesn’t slap me. He doesn’t melt into my arms. He just exhales and looks… confused.
“I really should be going inside,”
he says, almost in a whisper.
And just like that, the night folds in on itself.
He gives me one last look—complicated, unreadable, pure Miles—and then turns toward the back steps of his backyard. I watch him walk the deck and into the house, each step deliberate and graceful, like he’s choreographing heartbreak.
I should feel like an idiot. I kinda do.
But I also feel…something else.
Because that kiss? It was nothing like the hundreds of other kisses I’ve doled out like party favors. That one? That one’s gonna linger. Not just on my lips, but somewhere beneath my rib cage, like a damn bruise I want to press just to remember it’s real.
And maybe that’s the problem.
I stand there, watching the door close behind him, the soft click somehow louder than any beachside storm. I let out a slow breath and dig my hands into my pockets again.
“Well, Knight,”
I mutter to myself.
“You’re totally fucking screwed.”