Miles
The sand was cool beneath my feet.
I had kicked off my loafers the second we stepped out of the Uber, and now, Hudson and I were walking side by side along the beach, the night so still it almost felt staged. Waves curled and crashed in a lazy rhythm, white foam catching the glow from the moon like lace edging on a dark silk sheet. Everything smelled like salt, seaweed, and early summer—the kind of scent that clings to your soul and makes you nostalgic for things you haven’t even lost yet.
Hudson was quiet at first. Not a brooding kind of quiet. More like a steady hum beside me, like he was absorbing the moment. Or maybe dreading it. I couldn’t tell.
We walked for a while like that—just the sound of our feet in the sand, the waves, and the occasional drunk echo of someone laughing far off in town.
Eventually, I exhaled.
“That kiss earlier…”
He turned his head slightly toward me but said nothing.
“Kissing you this weekend was the first time I’ve kissed someone since Owen,”
I admitted softly, watching the sand shift beneath each step.
Hudson stopped walking. I did, too.
“What?”
he asked. It wasn’t shock—it was something else. Something smaller.
“Seriously?”
I nodded.
“Yeah. It wasn’t intentional. It just… I haven’t wanted to. Not until you.”
His expression shifted, and for a moment, he looked like he’d just been punched in the stomach. Genuinely stunned.
“…”
he began, and then closed his mouth again. His jaw clenched like he was holding something back.
“What?”
I asked, stepping closer.
“You’re suddenly quiet. That’s not your brand.”
He let out a humorless laugh and shoved a hand through his hair.
“Yeah, well. I didn’t expect you to say that. That’s… kind of a big thing to tell a guy who has the emotional consistency of a firework.”
“I’m aware.”
He looked down at the sand and then up again, locking eyes with me.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Oh, I think I do,”
I said, folding my arms.
“At Diego’s, I could tell you were getting weirdly twitchy every time someone breathed in my direction.”
“I’m serious,”
he said, stepping closer now, until I could see the tension carved into every muscle in his face.
“This isn’t just some hard-to-get fantasy—though I’ll admit, that’s what I thought at first. This isn’t about the chase. I’m not just bored and horny and flattered that some perfect coastal organizer finally decided to slum it with a hot mess like me.”
I blinked.
“Did you just call yourself a hot mess?”
“Stay with me here,”
he said.
“I think about you all the time. Ever since that night at Aqua—which feels like a century ago, even though it was literally a few nights ago. Like, all the time. Even when I don’t want to. Even when I try to distract myself with something shiny or loud or half-naked. Doesn’t matter. You’re there. In my head. Reorganizing the shelves. Judging my paper towel brand. Telling me to hydrate.”
“You should hydrate,”
I said, too touched to tease him fully.
Hudson took another step forward.
“That guy with his hands on me—normally, I’d flirt back. Maybe get a free drink out of it. But all I could think about was you seeing it. And hating it. And walking away.”
I swallowed.
He reached up and touched my jaw, gently brushing the side with his thumb.
“I don’t want to be the guy you run from, . I want to be the one you run to. Can we somehow cue Whitney Houston’s ‘Run to You’ right now?”
I stared at him, heart thudding like it was trying to break out of my chest.
Damn, he talked too much sometimes.
But my lips shut him—and his pop culture references—up immediately.
We kissed again. This time slower, deeper. No background music, no crowd, no oscillating lights—just the sound of the waves and the soft drag of our breaths. His mouth was warm and hungry, but careful, too—like he knew exactly how much of me to take and when to hold back.
His tongue met mine and moved with maddening precision, curling and teasing like he’d memorized every nerve in my mouth. I moaned—quietly, against his lips—and I felt him smile as his fingers slid into my hair, anchoring us together like he didn’t want to ever let go.
It was bliss. For a second, I forgot everything. My divorce. The paparazzi. The craziness of the last few days.
But then he pulled away.
Not sharply. Not like a rejection. It was slow. Intentional. Like he was bracing for something painful.
“I don’t deserve you,”
he said finally, voice quiet and raw.
I blinked.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ve got baggage, . Like steamer-trunk-on-a-cruise-ship baggage. Emotional carry-ons, scandalous checked luggage. And you… you’re refined. You’re polished. You’re a freaking lifestyle empire wrapped in botanical-scented grace. And I am—”
“A hot mess. You said that already,”
I quickly shot back.
“I am, though!”
he laughed bitterly.
“And I don’t want to drag you through my mess. The paparazzi. The exes. The burnouts. My career is a walking punchline half the time.”
I stared at him, heat rising in my chest.
“You think I don’t have baggage?”
“Not like mine.”
“You think I wanted a divorce? Do you think it’s fun rebuilding a life that the world thinks was perfect? My reputation is always one scandal away from imploding, and it took everything in me to come here and pretend like I was okay.”
“I know,”
he said, pain in his voice.
“And I don’t want to be the next reason you’re not.”
I stepped back.
“So, what? That’s it? You get scared and decide to walk away?”
He didn’t answer. He just looked at me with this complicated mixture of affection and guilt and longing that made me want to scream.
“I think,”
he said slowly.
“That I might be falling hard and fast for you. And if I keep going… I’ll ruin it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
I watched him turn, every step toward the beach house, pulling a little bit of the air out of the night. He didn’t say goodbye. He just walked. Sand kicking up behind his heels. Shoulders stiff. Jaw set.
He disappeared into the darkness ahead.
And I just stood there.
Mouth parted. Heart breaking. Wondering what the hell just happened.