Hudson
I stood there in the sand, blinking like I’d just been slapped with a cold fish. Miles stormed off into the house, and the sliding glass door shut with the kind of finality that felt biblical. Like a flood was about to come, and I’d been denied the ark.
And then there was Owen.
Just… standing there.
Sanctimonious. Pale. Annoyingly symmetrical face. Like if a yacht were a person. The kind of guy who wore socks with tiny embroidered lobsters and thought that was a personality trait.
I turned to him slowly. My hands were shaking, but not from nerves.
“You fucking smug little rich-bitch vampire,”
I muttered.
He raised a brow.
“Excuse me?”
I punched him square in the mouth.
The kind of punch you don’t recover from with a little Neosporin and a morning affirmation. His legs buckled, and he hit the sand hard, his khakis puffing a little cloud like a deflated soufflé. I didn’t even stop to gloat.
I spun and headed back toward the house like a man on a mission. No paparazzi, no staged moment, no fucking camera crew—just me and my bad decisions chasing the only good thing that’s happened to me in… maybe ever.
I reached the deck and slid the door open.
“Miles!”
I called, already halfway inside.
His voice sliced through the air before I could step over the threshold.
“Don’t, . I need to be alone.”
God. It was like getting slapped with that cold fish again. But I didn’t move. My chest was heaving. My hands still trembling from the adrenaline and Owen’s stupid face.
Then came the click of heels—Cecilia. In a flowy coral robe, mimosa in one hand, phone in the other. She was the only person I knew who could look like a Beverly Hills divorcée and a mafia boss at the same time.
“I tried to stop Owen,”
she said, striding in from the hallway.
“But he stormed in like he owned the damn place.”
Miles didn’t turn around. He just stood there in the center of the room, arms tense at his sides, back to us.
“I did everything I could,”
Cecilia added, a tightness creeping into her voice.
“And then… well. He said something.”
She raised her phone like a sword.
“Would you like to hear what your ex-husband called me after barging into our beach house?”
I blinked.
“Oh, please let it be something juicy.”
She hit play.
Owen’s voice blared through the speakers, sharp and nasally: “Get out of my way, you drunk, bitter bitch.”
Silence.
Except for the sound of Miles’ breath tightening. He didn’t move. But I saw his fists curl. His shoulders rise. His whole body went statue still.
And then—like a storm had just made up its mind—he pivoted. A clean, sharp U-turn. The kind that said vengeance hath arrived.
He flew past us, barefoot on the hardwood, sliding the deck door open again like he was about to serve a reckoning on a charcuterie board.
Owen, to his credit, had the nerve to still be standing, dusting sand off his chinos like he hadn’t just been punched back to 1997.
Miles reached him in five strides.
And then punched him in the face.
It was clean. It was cathartic. It was art.
Owen stumbled back against the deck railing, stunned. “Miles—!”
“Don’t you ever!”
Miles snarled.
“Ever call my mother that again, you pathetic piece of shit. Do you understand me?!”
Owen looked confused, then scared, then confused again. Probably short-circuited from hearing Miles swear with actual venom.
“Now get the hell out of here,”
Miles continued, voice ice.
“And don’t you dare come back inside. Walk around to the front. Leave!”
“But—I came all this way to—”
“You came all this way,”
Miles cut in.
“Because you saw I was with Knight, and it made you jealous.”
I flinched a little at my full name. Usually, only court summonses and angry drag queens use it.
Miles kept going.
“That doesn’t erase the fact that you cheated. It doesn’t erase the fact that I can stand here—right now—and say I no longer love you.”
Owen’s mouth opened and closed. A fish again. This time, flopping.
“Now, please leave.”
He stood there another second. Then spit on the sand beside him—gross—and stalked off without another word. Just… gone.
I turned to look at Miles.
He stood there on the deck, chest heaving, fists still clenched at his sides.
And I thought, Damn, I think I might love him.
And also, Remind me to never piss him off.
There’s a certain kind of silence that follows a punch. Not the wet, crunching kind that comes with breaking noses—though, yeah, that’s a vibe I’m familiar with—but the emotional silence. The kind where everything gets real damn quiet because someone just laid their heart out, and no one knows what to do with it. That was the silence that hovered between me and Miles after he socked Owen like a superhero defending his mom’s honor.
And then he turned and walked into the house.
No words. No dramatic glance back. Just the back of his linen shirt fluttering like some beachside curtain in a sad French film.
Naturally, I chased after him, because I’m not the let things cool off and wait for the universe type. I’m the run face-first into an emotional bonfire and hope I come out tanned type.
“Miles,”
I called, stepping through the deck door like I hadn’t just watched the man I adore channel his inner Rocky Balboa.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.
I caught up to him near the hallway and reached for his wrist.
“Please…”
he said, voice low and shaking like a cocktail I didn’t deserve.
“You’ve caused enough damage. Now let me go, or another punch will be thrown, and I mean it.”
I froze.
Let’s be clear—I’ve been threatened before. Exes, producers, that one lesbian motorcycle gang in Fire Island. But this? This one hit somewhere lower. Somewhere tender.
I let go of his wrist.
He yanked it away anyway and stomped up the stairs. A second later: SLAM.
Ah. The universal punctuation mark for heartbreak.
I stared up the staircase like it had betrayed me. I then sighed and turned toward the living room, where Cecilia was nursing what looked like her first—well, knowing her, maybe second—Bloody Mary of the morning. Or maybe her third. Who was I to judge?
She didn’t say anything at first, just lifted a finely arched brow over the rim of her glass.
“Well,”
I muttered, flopping dramatically onto a velvet armchair like a dead Victorian debutante.
“That went fucking terribly.”
Cecilia let out a long sigh and sipped.
“You really do know how to destroy a perfectly good weekend, don’t you?”
“Look, I wasn’t trying to destroy it. I was aiming for… mild chaos. Controlled emotional combustion. Flirty existential spirals. Y’know, the usual.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Did you know about the plan? The one your agent and Miles’ assistant cooked up?”
I groaned.
“Christ, you too?”
“That’s not a no,”
she said, voice crisp enough to exfoliate skin.
“Okay, yes. Technically, I knew,”
I admitted.
“My agent told me it’d be best if I could convince Miles to go public with the divorce. Said it’d make us both look less like trash. Especially him.”
Cecilia’s silence was dagger-sharp. The ceiling fan above us kept spinning, like even it wanted to move on from this trainwreck.
“But I swear,”
I added quickly, sitting up, “I didn’t do it out of selfishness. I mean, yeah, I’m selfish. Have you met me? I use silk eye masks and call my publicist at midnight to do damage control from my 11:00 PM sordid decisions. But this time, I wasn’t being an asshole.”
She tilted her head like she was listening for bullshit.
“I did it because I knew people were already dragging him. Calling him a liar, a cheater, a fame-humping grifter. If he publicly said he was divorced, that’d change everything. It wouldn’t fix it completely, but it’d soften it. Reframe the story.”
Her silence continued.
“Like, yeah, they’d still say he had bad taste for dating me,”
I continued.
“But that’s better than people thinking he was two-timing his picture-perfect husband. Right?”
Cecilia blinked.
“I hope you explained that to him better than you just explained it to me.”
I sighed and stood up, rubbing my temples.
“I’m gonna try.”
“You’ve got about five minutes before his bedroom becomes Fort Knox and his tears start soaking into those $300 pillowcases.”
“Duly noted,”
I muttered, heading toward the stairs.
I stood outside his bedroom door like a rejected Bachelor contestant about to deliver one final monologue.
I knocked.
“It’s me again…”
“I told you to go away,”
came the muffled reply, sharp and fast and broken in the middle.
I leaned against the door.
“Yeah, I know. You told me. And I get it, Miles. I fucked up.”
Silence.
“I should’ve told you about the plan. That my agent suggested that I try to get you to go public with the divorce. I should’ve told you everything—but I didn’t. Because I panicked. I didn’t want you to think I was using you. I didn’t want you to walk away.”
Still silence.
I sighed.
“But here’s the truth—I didn’t do it for selfish reasons. I did it because I knew it would help you. I saw the headlines. The comments. People calling you a liar. Accusing you of cheating. I couldn’t let your whole brand unravel just because you kissed a has-been drama demon with a TMZ file thicker than a deli sandwich.”
A pause. Still no footsteps. No movement inside.
“Yeah, people might still think you had bad judgment for being with me. But that’s so much better than being seen as a cheater, right?”
I leaned my forehead against the door.
“And anyway… I think you’re right. I’ve caused enough problems for you this weekend. Hell, probably for your whole year. Actually, probably your whole synced Google Calendar for the next five years, for that matter.”
I let out a bitter little laugh.
“You should enjoy this last day to yourself. Let it be peaceful. I promise—I won’t bother you again. You don’t have to worry about Knight traipsing through your curated beach retreat like a walking tabloid headline any longer.”
My voice cracked a little.
“But… thank you for making this an unforgettable weekend. For letting me see what it’s like to feel wanted and safe for once. I’m never gonna meet a guy like you again, Miles Whitaker.”
I swallowed.
“Even I know that,”
I said, ending my spiel.
I stepped away from the door.
No sound behind it. Just the low hum of silence and, somewhere far off, the sound of waves licking the shore like they had no idea the storm had just passed through.
I walked back down the stairs, out through the front door, and into the sun.
Alone again. Just me and my regret.
Fond fucking memories, I thought.
And then I walked home.
The minute I stepped back into my beach house, I peeled off my shirt like it owed me money and collapsed face-first into the leather sectional like a hungover raccoon who’d just ruined someone’s wedding.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t dramatically throw a martini glass into the fireplace like I was auditioning for the Real Housewives of Rehoboth Beach—though I was tempted. Instead, I just lay there, sprawled across the sofa, letting the silence wrap around me like one of those weighted anxiety blankets they sell on late-night TV.
I’d done the right thing.
Right?
Miles was upstairs in that pretty little beach house, probably lighting a Diptyque candle and folding embroidered towels in the precise middle of a breakdown. And me? I was here. Alone. Emotionally bankrupt. Spiritually constipated. And—
brRRRRRZZZZ.
My phone buzzed from the coffee table like a damn vulture circling roadkill. I groaned, reached over blindly, and swiped it.
It was a text from my agent, Celeste.
Of course, it was.
Celeste:
Call me ASAP. Don’t be a diva. This is big.
I stared at it. Blinked. Grunted. And then hit dial.
“, baby,”
she answered on the first ring, voice all sharp edges and espresso.
“Why does it sound like you’re face-down on something expensive?”
“I am,”
I mumbled.
“And if you make me get up, I swear, I’m going to scream.”
“Well, un-glue your ass from whatever you’re stuck to because I have news.”
She paused.
“And you need to be sitting upright for this because you’re going to shit a diamond.”
I groaned louder and sat up. My joints popped like bubble wrap.
“Fine. I’m vertical. What’s the trauma?”
“You just got offered a role.”
I blinked.
“A role in what, exactly? A cautionary tale? A PSA about untreated fame rot? A celebrity cooking show where I burn toast while crying over my ex?”
“No, you fucking idiot.”
She sounded giddy.
“A movie. A big one. Studio-backed. Marvel-level hype.”
I perked up. “Oh?”
“It’s based on that video game franchise—Legend of Arkenfell.”
I scratched my head.
“The one with the shirtless knight and the talking dragon that got canceled for being ‘too bisexual’?”
“Exactly that one!”
she said, thrilled.
“They’re rebooting it. Think The Witcher meets Deadpool, but queerer, darker, more camp. And they want you.”
“Me? As what, the dragon?”
“You wish,”
she scoffed.
“No. The rogue prince. The one with the scar and the dual swords and the tragic past. You’d be perfect.”
I sat there, stunned.
“Wait, hold on. Is this a pity role? Like, oh look, Knight cleaned up for five seconds, and now let’s reward him with a leather breastplate and a bad accent?”
“No. It’s because your image is glowing right now,”
she said, dead serious.
“You’ve been out of the tabloids for the most part. You’ve stopped falling out of gay clubs like a sweaty pi?ata. And the photos of you at the beach? With Miles Whitaker?”
Ah, there it was.
“You mean the gay Martha Stewart,”
I muttered.
“Exactly. Do you know what it looks like to America right now? Knight, former Hollywood menace, finally settling down with a pristine homemaker who bakes scones and organizes pantries. It’s like a Hallmark redemption arc with dick jokes.”
I laughed—painfully.
“You’re saying this… Miles thing is actually helping me?”
I asked for clarification.
Celeste sighed.
“It’s not just helping you. It’s resurrecting you. Directors are using words like rebrand, softened edges, and audience trust. Your face was on a Pinterest board labeled ‘Hot Summer Redemption Arc,’ and I nearly wept.”
I blinked again.
“People… like me?”
“For now,”
she warned.
“Which is why you need to say yes to this role. There’s a dry run of script chemistry readings and training camp. They want you in LA early next week.”
“Jesus,”
I breathed.
“That’s fast.”
“Hollywood moves fast when your shirtless photo with a golden retriever goes viral,”
she said.
“Now, can I confirm?”
I looked out the window, past the dunes, toward the house where I knew Miles was probably crying, or journaling, or alphabetizing teabags by caffeine level.
“Yeah,”
I muttered.
“Confirm it.”
“Great. You’ll thank me when you’re wearing armor and swinging a sword at a CGI ogre while sipping on a ten-million-dollar contract.”
As she hung up, I dropped my phone into my lap and stared out at the beach like it had answers.
Spoiler: it didn’t.
I knew I had to leave. Not just for the job. But because of this… thing with Miles. Whatever it was, it had cracked something open in me, and I wasn’t entirely sure I liked it.
And yet, even now, I felt this urge. Like… I needed to tell him.
I reached for my phone and opened our thread, typing away.
HUDSON:
Hey. I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. But, I just got offered a movie. A real one. Like… big-budget, swords-and-capes, based-on-a-video-game movie. I have to be in LA by next week, meaning I should probably leave Rehoboth sooner rather than later to read the script and get a head start. I wanted you to know. I wanted you to be the first to know. Because even if you hate me, none of this would’ve happened without you. So yeah… I’m leaving Rehoboth Beach soon. I don’t expect a reply. Just thought you should hear it from me.
I hit send.
And then I threw my phone across the couch and flopped back again, arms sprawled like I was making a snow angel in shame.
Maybe this was it.
The end of the weirdest, most beautiful chapter I’d accidentally stumbled into.
And the beginning of another mess.
Because nothing says growth like a sword-wielding gay icon with unresolved emotional trauma and a one-way ticket to Los Angeles.
Have you ever packed a bag with the delusion that you’re in control of your own life?
Yeah, that was me.
I had one foot out the door, a duffel stuffed with designer sweaters I never wore, and enough skincare to moisturize a small village. I tossed in a printed script, a phone charger, and that stupid bottle of Miles’ lavender linen spray he accidentally left behind—because, apparently, I like to marinate in heartbreak. I could have packed more, but I was trying to make a clean getaway.
I gave the place one last glance. My beach house. My little rehab-from-chaos oasis. And now I was leaving it behind like a one-night stand I didn’t want to cuddle.
Keys in hand. Sunglasses on. Car in reverse.
I was seconds from driving off into the golden-fucking-sunset when—
BAM.
A blur of khaki and desperation hurled itself directly into the path of my convertible.
I slammed on the brakes so hard my soul briefly evacuated my body.
What the hell—
I squinted.
And then I saw him.
Miles Whitaker.
Hair mussed from the wind, face flushed, and eyes wide and glassy like a man possessed by equal parts heartbreak and poor decision-making.
He stood there, right in front of my hood, arms out like some gay Moses trying to part the Rehoboth summer traffic.
I put the car in park and practically launched myself out.
“Miles?! Are you trying to die in front of my car so I’m legally forced to stay?! I’m flattered, but—”
“Shut up!”
he yelled.
And then he ran at me.
Before I could finish a thought, he lunged—not like a cinematic, slow-motion lunge, but like a full-bodied, emotionally unstable tackle into my chest.
His arms wrapped around me like I was the last designer tote on sale at Bergdorf’s.
“I’ve never—”
he choked, his voice thick.
“I’ve never felt this way before.”
I blinked.
“I mean, fair, but we’ve both felt feelings before, Miles. You’ve been married. I’ve been drunk in a Denny’s.”
He pulled back slightly to glare at me, eyes shining.
“Stop. Just let me say this.”
I shut up.
Because he looked wrecked in that beautiful, messy, movie-ending kind of way. Hair windblown, shirt wrinkled, heart exposed. And holy hell, it was doing something to me.
“I didn’t know it could hurt like this,”
he said, his voice trembling.
“I didn’t expect to fall so fast for someone like you.”
“Ouch,”
I muttered.
“Someone like me?”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
“But I did fall,”
he went on.
“And that’s why I got so upset. Because I trusted you. I believed you.”
I swallowed hard.
“And yes, hearing that you kept something from me? That hurt. But I realized something—”
He pressed his forehead to mine.
“I’d rather be hurt by you and work through it… than spend one more morning pretending I don’t care.”
I stood there, arms locked around him, stunned.
“You… forgive me?”
I whispered.
He nodded.
“I don’t want to hold on to anger. I want to hold on to you.”
Fuck me to hell.
That was it. I melted.
“Thank you,”
I said. And I meant it. I felt it in every fucking rib.
Our lips met—soft at first, then deeper, urgent. Not like a steamy make-out in a nightclub bathroom. But like two people clinging to something rare. Something real.
And it didn’t matter that we were standing in the middle of my driveway, car door open, wind whipping around us like a dramatic indie film climax. All that mattered was that his mouth tasted like morning coffee and redemption, and his hands were gripping the back of my shirt like he never wanted to let go.
Eventually, we broke apart, breathless.
I looked down at him.
“So… do you wanna, like, come back inside? I’ve got leftover white truffle popcorn and half a bottle of regret.”
He laughed—like really laughed, a warm sound I wanted to trap in a jar and play on repeat.
“Yeah,”
he said.
“Let’s go inside.”
We walked back into the house, arms brushing, that strange new warmth blooming in my chest again—something suspiciously close to hope.
For once, I wasn’t running.
And neither was he.