Hudson
I woke up before my alarm. Hell, I woke up before the sun even fully committed to the sky. My phone said 8:00 AM, and my soul said, “What the fuck, man?”
I never—never—wake up this early unless it’s for something dire, like a court date or Botox. But there I was, wide awake in a king-sized bed with three pillows on the floor, a cramp in my calf and foot, and one hell of a memory tingling on my lips.
The kiss.
That goddamn kiss.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling fan spinning half-assedly above me, doing about as much work as I planned to do today. And yet, something in me felt weirdly… alert. Alive, even.
Miles Whitaker. Mr. Prim. Mr. Pristine. Mr.
“Fold-Your-Napkin-Diagonally-or-Die.”
I’d kissed him. On the beach. Under the stars. After three martinis and a walk so long, I thought I might legally be in Maryland by the end of it.
And okay—fine—maybe I didn’t plan it. Perhaps it was the vodka. Or the briny whisper of olive juice that had me all in my feelings. But the thing is, it wasn’t just the martinis.
It was him.
That man was a walking paradox—cold as quartz one second, then warm as a sunbeam if you looked at him just right. And when he turned away at his beach house and said, “Thank you for not completely ruining my evening,”
I should’ve let him go inside and be done with it.
But no. My dumbass had to go and grab his wrist like I was some character in a Nicholas Sparks paperback with a shirt unbuttoned to my navel.
And then I kissed him. Softly. Stupidly.
And now? Now, I couldn’t stop replaying it. The way he tensed. The way he blinked like he wasn’t expecting me to do it—even though, let’s be honest, I’m about as subtle as a drag queen at a baptism. But more than anything, I couldn’t forget the way his lips felt.
Soft. Still. Honest.
I sat up in bed and raked my hands through my hair, which felt like a haystack of regret and bad decisions. No headache, thankfully. That long walk must’ve sobered me up more than I thought.
“Okay,”
I muttered to myself, standing up and stretching, my t-shirt lifting just enough to remind me I still had abs.
“Let’s not be a psycho. Let’s be chill. We can be chill.”
That was a lie. I wasn’t chill. I was spiraling like a Bravo Real Housewife caught in a hot mic scandal.
I waddled barefoot into the kitchen, my injured foot feeling so much better today than yesterday. I made a protein shake I didn’t really want, then poured it down the sink and opted for iced coffee with an irresponsible amount of almond milk. I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram.
I hovered for a moment before tapping the DM icon on Miles Whitaker’s profile.
Was this dumb? Probably. Did that ever stop me before? No.
@Knight_Official:
Hey. I know last night was… well, unexpected. But I wanted to say thanks for the walk. And the conversation. You’re kind of annoyingly refreshing, you know that? Also… sorry if the kiss was too much. If you never want to talk to me again, I get it. But if you do, I’d love to see you again—maybe when I’m not limping like a wounded gazelle? On a different note, I’m kind of starving right now. Not usually a breakfast kind of guy, but I have an itch for some today. Any recommendations on places to go in town?
I stared at the message. Then, re-read it three times. Then, almost deleted it. Then, hit send before I could chicken out.
Sent.
I dropped my phone onto the counter like it had burned me. Jesus. I was acting like a high schooler who had just texted his crush during third-period English Lit.
To distract myself from the emotional turmoil between my ears, I decided to workout in my home gym. My foot still had stitches, and I wasn’t exactly in peak condition. But I needed to do something to shake off the feeling that I’d somehow handed my heart over in a Ziploc bag last night. I would just have to do my best to avoid putting too much pressure on it while lifting weights.
It was decided.
I threw on some gym shorts, grabbed my sneakers, and tottered out to the garage where my home gym setup was—free weights, a stationary bike, and a full-length mirror for thirst traps and self-loathing.
I started with light stretches. My foot barked at me like a tiny angry chihuahua, but I ignored it and hopped onto the bike. I cranked up the resistance and pedaled like I was being chased by the ghost of my last scandal. Which, honestly, was a very real possibility.
After about thirty minutes, I was drenched in sweat, my heart thumping, and my brain marginally less chaotic. I wiped my forehead and checked my phone again.
No response from Miles.
Figures. He was probably alphabetizing his sock drawer or making a color-coded list of reasons why I’m emotionally unstable. But I couldn’t shake the hope. The maybe. The what if.
I liked him. And not in the usual, shallow, -wants-to-fuck way. It was something deeper. Weirder. More annoying.
Miles Whitaker made me feel things. Real things. Things that couldn’t be fixed with tequila and a shirtless selfie.
And I hated how much I didn’t hate that.