Chapter 60
CHAPTER SIXTY
mia
There’s a shift in the atmosphere the very next day.
Pres doesn’t hide our kisses anymore—the PG ones, of course, especially now that he knows they make Lily giggle so hard she snorts. If before he stole touches like contraband, now he reaches for me openly. And he’s collecting the debt he's owed.
Group hugs are now a thing. We’ve turned them into a breakfast side and added them to the night routine too. Mandatory cuddles? You’ll get zero complaints from me.
The scrapbook’s already thickening—corners of new Polaroids are curling where the glue gave up.
Lily clips new pics on the twine in the hallway: our singing battles, pancake chaos, telescope nights.
Preston must be spending her college fund on Polaroid film.
The place feels more like ours every day; there’s always somebody laughing, singing, or leaving a mess behind.
And for the first time, messy doesn’t bother me at all.
Outside, the air’s getting colder. Mornings mean hoodies, fogged breath, and Lily’s little red nose as she waves at us from the school gates.
Evenings start sooner and we found Jupiter last night.
Pres whispered boring facts about its orbit until I kissed him mid-sentence just to shut him up.
He grinned into my lips and said, “Teen Preston always knew hot girls love it when I talk science.” He wiggled his brows, and I cracked up. I love his silly side.
I’ve started slipping tiny notes into Lily’s lunchbox. Dumb puns mostly. “Have a flantastic day!” or “You’re the zest!” She saves every single one in a purple box with kitty ears when she gets home.
What I didn’t expect was Pres liking his notes so much too. I wrote “You’re my favorite snack” on top of his packed lunch one day. He texted me that afternoon with a photo of the Post-it stuck over his heart. I nearly walked into a lamppost, smiling.
This week, he sent me on what he called a ‘multi-store mission’—something about specific brands of protein yogurt and the good kind of toilet paper. It felt suspicious from the start.
When I got home, my room was empty. Correction: Our room was fuller.
My books, clothes, sketch pads—everything—had migrated to the his bedroom. Pres stood there, leaning against the doorway, all proud of himself.
“Before you bite my head off,” he said. “Lily helped.”
She peeked from behind him, grinning. “Welcome home, Mia.”
And what could I do but pepper their faces with kisses until one of them screamed for me to stop? Lily, obviously.
Later that day, Lily drew us. Three stick figures and one speech bubble over her head that said “NO CRUSTS.”
Pres pushed everything else off the fridge—calendars, flyers, dentist reminders—and pinned it dead center with the care of someone handling something sacred.
“We were due a family picture.” He clears his throat. “Thanks, Lil.”
It hits me sometimes, out of nowhere, how much of me belongs here now. With them. And then the clock in my head starts ticking again.
Pres announced Zaha’s coming next Saturday with her design plans for the rest of the house. He told Lily she doesn’t have to change her room if she doesn’t want to, but of course, she jumped at the chance. He offered to redesign our room from scratch, so it has more of me in it.
“Can I have a slide from my bed to the desk?” Lily asks.
Preston scratches his head once. “Let’s run it by Zaha.” Then he turns to me. “Go crazy with your research, bring your ideas too.”
“Pres,” I laugh, “we don’t even know for sure—”
He cuts me off. “You said you trusted me, didn’t you?”
“I do.”
He smiles, gaze tracing my mouth as if committing it to memory. “God, I love those words coming out of your mouth. Say it again.”
“You’re insufferable.” I laugh again into his joke.
“Still waiting,” he whispers, kissing my tattooed wrist.
I say it again. “I do.” Quietly.
Somewhere along decorating plans and bedtime giggles, practical life still happens. School sent new emergency contact forms home. When Lily handed them to me, I froze halfway through the second page, where Pres had already written my name in his handwriting.
Mia Thorne: guardian.
My hand shook so much I nearly botched the signature. But he was there, steadying me without a word, just his presence.
Then there’s work—or the lack of it. I’ve started applying for remote gigs. Nothing glamorous, but enough to remind me I’m still me, and I have a life while Lily’s at school. When I called to tell Pres I got my first interview, he came back home and popped a Nosecco.
The scrapbook’s running out of pages, the hallway twine can’t hold another photo, and Lily’s drawing still rules the fridge. Every inch of this place feels alive with what we made of it. Maybe that’s why the silence hits so loud when I remember it’s all on borrowed time.
He doesn’t know I still wake up sometimes, counting weeks.
Less than three left on my visa. Sixteen days, if I stop rounding up to fool my nerves.
Joy shouldn’t come with an expiration date, but mine’s stamped and ticking.
I’m still awake when he rolls over, tucks me close, murmurs against my neck, “Don’t slip away from me. You said you trust me.”
“I do,” I whisper, trying not to tremble.
“Then let me handle this. We’ll move to London if we have to. Nothing’s going to tear us apart.”
“Pres, you can’t just uproot—”
His arm bands tighter around my waist. “Trust. Me.”
His heartbeat’s steady against my back, mine isn’t. I turn so he can see my face when I say his favorite words again. “I do.”
He smiles—the kind that could sell ice to Eskimos. “I won’t let you down.”
Air rushes from my lungs. No one’s ever said that to me and meant it. Not my parents. Not anyone. And again, I trust him.
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press.
Maybe that’s trust. Not asking for the footnotes.
Tomorrow’s Friday. Lily’s got a sleepover with Callie and April, which means one glorious thing: we’ve got the house to ourselves.
Pres promised me fire, wine, cheese, and the smell of burned paper before bed. The rest of my list is going up in smoke, one wish at a time. I’m counting down the hours.
We just need to stop by a few stores first; there’s a special one he wants to take me.
Still, my chest feels tight with the kind of joy that always costs something.
The universe loves a setup, and this happiness? It’s begging for a twist.
I smile anyway. That’s tomorrow Mia’s problem.