Chapter 18
eighteen
“RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP” — TAYLOR SWIFT
Tavey
Somewhere outside of Austin, I realized how badly I’d miscalculated.
I started this weekend nursing a pretty serious crush on Miller.
It grew over time, out of years of spending five days a week with the man.
It grew slowly, because, let’s face it, socially speaking, Miller has been a tough nut to crack.
He’s quiet, observant, and thoughtful. So freaking serious. So freaking smart.
The combination is pretty intimidating.
If he were an arrogant man, he would be insufferable. Without a sense of humor, he’d be stodgy and dull. But he’s not arrogant. And he is funny. And if all of that wasn’t dangerous enough, he is also kind.
No, not kind, precisely.
He’s aware. He makes me feel seen.
But here’s the crux of the problem: I came into this weekend with a crush. Here I am, barely twenty-four hours later, and I find my crush morphing into something much more dangerous.
It’s Miller’s quiet acceptance of last night’s outrageous behavior that does it.
What kind of man would be so kind about my behavior last night? About my Raquel-inspired spiral and my overindulgence. About my clumsy attempt to seduce him.
Was it even a seduction attempt, or did I declare my costume-related fantasies?
Most men—maybe any other man—would be running for the hills right now.
But no, not Miller.
Kind, thoughtful, attentive Miller quietly seeded my hotel room with glasses of water, found my missing dragon, and brought me coffee.
And the playlist?
Oh, man. That playlist gutted me.
A playful and fun collection of the songs I danced to last night, layered in with some other thoughtful choices. Songs full of pining and hope. Songs about transitions and change. It was so perfectly what I needed this morning.
And that’s the thing about Miller and his quiet ability to give me exactly what I need. To anticipate it and deliver it.
As though it’s his full-time job.
No one else in my life—not my parents, not my older brother Max, certainly not any other friend I’ve ever had—has ever seen me with as much clarity as he does. No one has ever seen me at my worst and still wanted to be there.
Until Miller.
His behavior makes me yearn for so much more. And makes me terrified of losing him.
How can I possibly risk losing that kind of friendship?
For the first time in my life, I want guide rails. I want boundaries. I want the safety of knowing exactly how this will play out.
By the time we pull up outside my building, I have a speech prepared.
It’s a good speech. Measured. Reasonable. Adult.
I’ve accounted for every variable.
I’m ready.
Inviting him upstairs feels different this time.
Last night it was an impulse. Courage borrowed from tequila and bad decision-making.
Now it feels… inevitable. Terrifying, but necessary.
I unlock the door to my apartment and step inside.
Miller steps in behind me, quiet as always, taking in the space without comment. He sets my bags down near the door with that same careful efficiency he brings to everything, like even luggage deserves to be handled with intention.
I’m immediately aware of the chaos I naturally leave in my wake every time I walk out the door.
Discarded shoes by the front door. My yoga mat in front of the TV.
Multiple mugs containing various liquids in various degrees of sludge.
And the coup de grace: an open box of Lucky Charms next to an empty bowl, the last drags of sugary milk concreted in the bottom.
No, wait. There’s also a hastily discarded bra draped over a basket of folded laundry.
This is not the stage from which anyone could deliver a thoughtful, moderate, adult-ish speech.
Cool. Great. Love this for me.
Stifling a burst of embarrassment, I turn toward him and blurt, “My roommate is the worst.”
His gaze shifts across the room, no doubt cataloging all the crap I don’t want him to see. Then he smirks. “Thought you said you lived alone.”
“I used to. But then”—Who am I kidding? No other human would live like this.—“a feral raccoon moved in.”
His smug smirk morphs into a rare, full-on grin, and suddenly I don’t care that he knows I live like a feral raccoon.
There’s a loud thump from the other room.
Miller tenses for just a second, until my cat enters from the bedroom. “Is that the raccoon?”
I heft Nero into my arms and present him to Miller. “Actually, this is Nero.” Then I take a step back. “You’re not allergic are you?”
“Nope.” He steps forward to let Nero sniff his fingers. “Nero? After the Roman Emperor?”
“Yep.”
“The one notorious for his debauchery and self-indulgence?”
“Can you think of a better name for a cat?” Nero is a twenty-five pound Maine Coon mutt with the fluid dynamics of a sea slug. Since he’s starting to seep out of my arms, I set him down. “Besides, he’s a rescue and had a troubled kittenhood. He’s earned his life of luxury.”
I wander to the kitchen and make sure Nero’s automatic feeder and water fountain have done their job in my absence.
“Make yourself at home,” I say, because Please pretend I don’t live like a frat boy seems like I’d be asking too much. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Tap water?”
“Tavey,” Miller says, his tone gentle.
I’m about to make a joke asking if he wants me on the rocks or straight up. Thankfully, I hear the double entendre in my head before the words can leave my mouth.
So instead, I just turn to face him, suddenly aware how small my living room is.
There’s nowhere to go.
No windshield to stare through.
No sunglasses to hide behind.
No movement to soften the edges of this moment.
Just us.
And everything we didn’t say.
He’s leaning back against the door, arms loose at his sides, watching me with that steady, patient focus that is either deeply comforting or completely destabilizing depending on how emotionally compromised I am.
Currently: both.
And all that’s left is that speech I mentally rehearsed on the drive back.
“Here’s the thing, Miller—”
My crush developed during all those hours of working together—those hours that were full of small gestures, friendly banter, and the kind of intellectual buzz that comes from working side by side with someone who is your intellectual match.
But my brain skitters away from saying the thing I need to say, and suddenly I find myself missing my scarf, which was so easy to play with and wrap around my hands last night. I need something to distract myself from what I’m about to say. What I need to say.
He just looks at me with an arched eyebrow. Waiting. Because, of course, he does.
“The thing is this: we’re such good friends.
” You’re my best friend, I realize with sudden clarity.
Even though until this weekend I’d never spent time with him outside of work.
Which I realize is part of the problem. “We’re so good together at work.
And until now, that’s all we were. You were a coworker.
‘My hawt coworker that I wanted to bone.’ In Rosa’s words. ”
“Who’s Rosa?”
“My niece.”
He balks, looking slightly horrified. “You talk about who you want to bone with your niece?”
“They adopted her when she was seventeen, so she’s an adult.
It’s okay.” I wave away his obvious assumption that my niece is a child, worried that he’s getting lost in the weeds.
“At some point during the weekend, you went from being my hot coworker Rosa thinks I should bone to being something else.”
His gaze narrows infinitesimally. “Are you putting me in the friend zone because I didn’t take advantage of you last night?”
“No! God, no. I just…”
Suddenly my heart is racing because I don’t know how to put into words how I feel about him. He’s not just Miller anymore. He’s so much more. He feels intrinsic to me now. I’m not even sure I’d be able to function without him.
I am perilously close to being completely, head over heels, bonkers in love with him. And that idea is brutally terrifying in a way I can’t put into words. Because I know how much I am. I’m too much. I always have been. I haven’t scared him off yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
“You’re just what?” he asks.
“I’m just terrified that if we sleep together it’s going to ruin our friendship.”
For an instant, he just stares at me. Tense. Coiled.
And then he pushes himself away from the door and crosses the room.
Surprised, I back up a step, but he keeps coming toward me until he’s got me backed against the wall. Suddenly his hands are in my hair and he’s cupping my jaw, tilting it up so I have to look at him. He’s so close to me, but those are the only two places he’s touching me.
“Fuck that noise,” he growls. “If you don’t want me, fine.
Tell me now. Say it to my face. Mean it.
And if you do, I’ll walk away. But don’t even talk to me about not wanting to ruin our friendship.
You really think we could still be friends after this?
Now that I know what your skin tastes like?
Now that I know you’ve thought about being with me, too?
Because I can’t be friends with you after that.
Forget about working together. Because that’s not going to happen. ”
I gasp, gutted. Furious with myself for ruining this. For throwing away the most important friendship I’ve ever had. Furious with myself for the tears that are prickling at the back of my eyes.
“So that’s it? I ruined everything?”
And it’s not just me I’m furious with. I’m mad at him too. Because this is his fault, too.
I plant my palms against his shoulders and shove. “Well, fuck you. I’m trying to save our friendship here, and that doesn’t matter to you at all? And you know what’s worse? This is your fault.”
His hands drop to his sides the second I push him. And now he’s just standing there, staring at me. “My fault?”
“Yeah. Your fault. We wouldn’t be in this situation if you weren’t so damn perfect. With your kindness and your perfect abs. And your thoughtful behavior.”
I break off mid-rant, because —
“Are you laughing at me?”
He doesn’t answer. Once again he closes the distance between us, but this time he pulls me fully into his arms — my body against his, one of his hands on my back, the other against the back of my head, cradling me.
“You are…” he lets out a breath that falls warm against my hair.
And I’m about ninety-nine percent sure that the movement I feel in his chest is suppressed laughter. I’m tempted to kick him in the shin. Or cry for real. Instead, I ask, “What am I?”
He angles my head so that he’s almost kissing me, and I can feel his words against the corner of my mouth. “Ask me that question again in about an hour, okay?”
That sensation—the feeling of him so close to me that his words are almost a kiss—is heart-stoppingly familiar. I’m almost positive he held me like this last night, but the memory is slippery. So thin it’s almost transparent.
“Why?” I ask, though I’m not sure if I’m asking why he wants me to ask again later or why I almost remember this moment from last night.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he kisses me.
And there’s no mistaking it for anything else. His lips on mine. Warm. Insistent. Firm.
Not questioning, but answering.
Like kissing me is his right. Like it’s what he was born to do.
Maybe it is.
Because Miller is good at a lot of things. He’s a great coder. He’s an amazing friend. He’s even a perfect Dothraki warrior. But all those skills pale compared to this one.
It turns out that the thing Miller is best at is kissing me.