Miles
I hadn’t planned on falling in love in Rehoboth Beach, fresh out of a divorce.
Hell, I hadn’t even planned on speaking to anyone other than my dog and maybe a few polite exchanges with baristas over oat milk lattes. This retreat was supposed to be about me—a solo recalibration. Healing. Coastal solitude. A perfectly curated palate cleanser for the soul.
But then Hudson Knight happened.
Loud. Crass. Unfiltered.
And somewhere between his reckless charm and the way he looked at me like I was his quiet, safe place—I got swept away.
Now, here I was, sitting on his leather sectional in the beach house next door, knees curled beneath me, watching him finish folding a shirt he clearly didn’t fold often. It was inside out, and it still had a faint stain on the collar. Lipstick, maybe. Or barbecue sauce. I didn’t want to know.
Apparently, he’d decided now was the time to do a proper packing job. But I knew it was just an excuse to stall—to spend as much time with me as he could. We both knew the inevitable was coming.
His suitcase sat open on the coffee table. Half-packed. Half-defiant. Like it didn’t want to go either.
“Your folding technique is a hate crime,”
I murmured, trying to smile.
Hudson snorted.
“Please. This shirt and I have been through war. It deserves wrinkles. It’s got character.”
I looked away, my throat tightening.
He noticed.
“.”
I glanced back.
He was standing now, arms crossed, brow furrowed in that rare way that meant something was actually getting to him beneath the bravado.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like I’m already gone.”
I stood slowly, barefoot on the cool tile, crossing the room to him. The space between us felt heavy with unsaid things, like the air itself was thick with ifs and maybes and wish-you-would-stays.
“This weekend…”
I began, exhaling.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I came here to get away. From the city. From Owen. From all of it. I thought I was supposed to find myself here.”
He nodded slowly, jaw working.
“And now?”
I continued, stepping closer.
“Now, I can’t picture this place without you in it.”
He swallowed hard. “…”
“No, let me finish. I don’t want you to leave, Hudson.”
He blinked.
“I know this was never supposed to be about you,”
I said, voice trembling.
“But now you’re part of the story. You’re part of the retreat. And I don’t want to go back to silence and spreadsheets and wine nights with Cecilia where she pretends not to know I’m sad.”
His eyes softened.
“You really think this… us… would work?”
I gave him a small, almost broken laugh.
“I think you drive me insane. You make me drink more than I should and eat carbs after eight. But I also think… I don’t want to be alone anymore. And I don’t want to not know what happens next between us.”
He closed the space between us.
“,”
he murmured, voice low, “you have no idea what you’re getting into with me.”
“Try me.”
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was the kind of kiss you give when words just don’t do it anymore. The kind that pulls something loose inside your chest and leaves it exposed to the air.
His hands were in my hair, at my jaw, then wrapped around my back so tight I felt the breath leave my body. I melted into him, my arms locked around his neck, fingers gripping the back of his shirt like a lifeline.
It was messy. Desperate. Real.
His mouth tasted like red wine and danger. Mine probably tasted like regret and toothpaste.
But it was perfect.
The kind of kiss that closes a book. Or starts a new one.
When he pulled away, we were both breathless, faces inches apart.
“I don’t know what the future looks like,”
he said quietly, brushing my hair back.
“I might be filming more than one role at a time again. Flying all over. I’ve got a role now… some stupid superhero thing. I’ll be shirtless and emotionally constipated and probably covered in fake blood five months straight.”
I laughed softly, still catching my breath.
“I don’t want to hold you down,”
he said.
“I can’t make promises I don’t know I can keep. I don’t want to hurt you.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“I want to be the guy you deserve, . But I’m scared I won’t be.”
“You don’t have to be perfect,”
I whispered.
“You just have to be real.”
He kissed me again, slower this time. Sweeter.
And when he pulled back, he smiled.
“God, you ruin me.”
“I know.”
I didn’t watch him finish packing. I couldn’t.
I stayed on the couch, knees pulled to my chest, as he zipped up the suitcase and tossed one last look over his shoulder.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said.
“So are you,”
I replied.
The door closed softly behind him.
And just like that… he was gone.
For now.