Chapter 11
Miles
“Miles!” Mya’s voice cuts through the quiet night behind me. “Can you just slow down? I’m wearing new heels, and they hurt like a bitch, okay!”
I stop halfway down the sidewalk and let out a breath, dragging my hands down my face as her heels click frantically against the concrete.
She catches up, breathing hard and glaring like she wants to throw one of those stilettos at my head.
“What the hell was that, Miles?” she scolds. “You know you have to keep a clean reputation for this competition next month. What part of that includes throwing punches in the middle of a bar?”
She’s not wrong.
But none of that mattered when I saw that guy’s hand on Vivian. None of it.
I rub my temple, jaw tight. “Yeah, Mya. I’m aware. Believe me, I’m very aware. But what was I supposed to do? Just stand there and let that prick grab her?”
She throws her hands in the air, exasperated. “No, but maybe try talking first? Like an adult? Not going full caveman in front of thirty witnesses?”
I snort. “God. You sound just like her,” I mutter.
She stops, arms folded. “Like who?”
“Vivian,” I say, quieter this time. Like the word itself softens something in my chest.
Mya’s expression shifts, her eyebrow arching with intrigue. “Ohh,” she says slowly, pointing a manicured finger at me. “That’s what this is. You like Vivian.”
I glance away, jaw clenched, trying to keep my expression neutral, but Mya’s already grinning like she’s cracked the code.
“A-ha! That’s why you went full Hulk mode!” she crows. “This makes so much sense.”
I groan, shaking my head. “Can you not—”
“Too late,” she says, cutting me off as she pulls out her phone. Her smile fades. “Shit. Someone already posted about the fight. A blurry video, can barely see your face…but still. This thing’s already getting views.”
I curse under my breath, “Fuck.”
Mya’s mouth sets in a firm line. “I’ll do what I can to get ahead of this, clean it up. But you better pray I’m still as good at my job as I think I am, or this might screw your chances for the finals.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” I mutter. “I just—” I shake my head. “I don’t know what came over me.”
That’s a lie.
I know exactly what came over me.
The second I saw that guy touch her—really touch her—I was right back in a place I swore I’d buried.
Back to that night. Back to the helplessness.
Mya sighs, tucking her phone away. “You’ve got to keep your head on straight, Miles.
I get it, I really do. But you can’t keep reacting like this, not if you want that future you’ve been working your ass off for.
” She pauses, then softens. “Especially not over a girl who might not even feel the same way.”
I don’t respond.
I know it’s wrong. She’s not ready for anything like that. Not with her past, not with what she’s been through.
I should be smart about this. Keep my distance. Focus on the one thing I can control, this competition.
That has to be my priority now.
But my jaw clenches as I replay what that asshole did, his hands on her, the things he said.
“Whether she feels something for me or not,” I mutter, eyes on the street in front of me. “That fucker deserved it. For insulting her and touching her like that.”
I’m sitting on a cold metal bench near a darkened storefront, the night pressing in around us. People pass by, laughing, holding drinks, carefree.
Mya sits down beside me with a quiet sigh, her heels finally giving her a break.
“I know why that triggered you,” she says gently, patting my shoulder.
“You’re not wrong. That dickhead deserved it.
But, Miles…” She pauses, waits for me to look at her.
“You’ve worked so damn hard to get here.
The finals are within reach. Just…try not to let your past take that from you. ”
She’s right. I know she is.
But that part of me, the one that grew up watching men treat women like they were disposable, weak, something to break, it never quiets. Especially not when it’s Vivian.
I look down at my hands, still aching from the punches I threw.
“I can’t just stand there when I see someone get treated like that,” I say, voice low, bitter. “Especially not her. Not after everything. She’s been through enough…and whether I have the right to feel this or not…” I shake my head, jaw tight. “I care about her.”
Mya’s quiet for a beat. Then she lets out a sigh, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” she says. “I can tell. I’ll be honest, though, it’s nice to see this side of you for a change.” She smiles, blue eyes soft and knowing.
I turn to her. “Which side of me?”
She laughs, light and teasing, then gives me a playful nudge. “The arrogant, notorious fuckboy side. Y’know, the one everyone thinks is permanently glued to a barstool with a woman on each arm.”
I let out a dry laugh, tilting my head back as I glance up at the sky. Maybe she has a point.
Usually, nights like this were about blowing off steam, drinks, distractions, someone I wouldn’t have to think about in the morning.
But lately? The few times I’ve gone out, all I’ve cared about is being with people I trust…and her.
Vivian.
I shake my head. “Nah. I’m not fucking soft.”
Mya raises a brow and smirks like she knows better. “If you say so, lover boy.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re hilarious,” I answer sarcastically.
She steps off the curb and waves down a cab. One pulls over with a squeal of brakes, headlights flashing across the sidewalk. As she opens the door, she turns back to me, that smirk fading into something more sincere.
“But seriously, I wasn’t there for long, but I can tell she has an effect on you,” she says quietly. “Please don’t fuck it up.”
I blink, caught off guard by how serious her tone has gone. “Since when did you get all wise on me?”
She smiles again, softer this time. And with that, she ducks into the cab. “Will be keeping in touch, lover boy.” And then the cab drives off.
I sit there on the bench a little longer, her words echoing in my head.
Don’t fuck it up.
The thing is, I don’t even know what this is yet.
I just know she’s still in there, probably working through what just happened, probably feeling like she has to carry it all alone.
And I hate that for her.
So, instead of heading back to my place, I find myself walking back toward the bar. My hands are still sore, and I’m tired as hell, but I know I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t see her, just make sure she’s okay.
* * *
Vivian
The bar’s slowed to a lazy crawl after the fight. The music’s softer now, more of a whisper than a rhythm. Only a few regulars linger, nursing their drinks, swapping tired stories, or just soaking in the kind of quiet that only comes after a storm.
I head back behind the bar, my throat thick. Greg glances up at me, brow raised, and I give him a reassuring smile that I’m okay.
I turn around and place empty bottles from the bar into the trash, already feeling the emotional hangover of a long, heavy night. Of too many things being said with too few words.
And then I feel it again.
I don’t have to turn around to know he’s walked in. I feel the shift in the air.
When I finally glance up, he’s already looking at me, shoulders tense, jaw tight.
Greg spots him before I say anything, his brows pulling together like he’s trying to read between lines that haven’t even been written yet.
He doesn’t ask. Just continues wiping down the counter, pretending he’s not watching the tension crackle between me and Miles like a livewire.
Miles steps in, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, making his way to the bar. The overhead lights catch the mess of his dark hair, casting shadows over his face that only make him look more tired…or more dangerous. I can’t decide which.
“Viv,” he says quietly. Gentle. Like the word means something to him. “Can we talk?”
And maybe that’s what makes it worse.
I want to tell him to leave.
I want to put that wall back up, the one he keeps slipping past no matter how many times I rebuild it.
But instead, I exhale slowly, heart thudding against the inside of my ribs. “I finish in an hour,” I say, reaching for distance I don’t really feel. “Maybe some other time.”
Because I can’t be alone in a room with him.
Not when I know what almost happened earlier.
Not when I’m still humming with the memory of it—of him.
And the worst part? I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist it if it happens again.
But I have to.
I don’t get to be reckless anymore. I don’t get to want something just because it feels good.
I’m not some hormonal teenage girl anymore.
I’m a woman who buried her husband almost two years ago.
A single mom to a five-year-old little girl who’s counting on me to keep her world steady.
To keep my world steady.
And Miles Sanchez?
He’s chaos wrapped in charm. A man with a reputation for doing exactly what he wants and sleeping with whoever he pleases.
And I can’t be another one of his temporary fixes.
Who am I kidding?
He’s already gotten closer than I meant to let him.
And sure, that’s not how I want to feel but it’s the truth. Because no matter what this town whispers about him—the drinking, the women, the late nights, and bad decisions—there’s another side, the side he only shows when we’re alone. A quieter one.
Like the night he drove me home. He didn’t try anything. Didn’t flirt or press or act like I owed him something just because he was being decent.
He made me laugh when my chest was tight and I wasn’t sure I remembered how.
And tonight, he didn’t hesitate. The second that guy put his hands on me, Miles was there. Stepping in. Defending me. Like I was his to protect.
Sure, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it at the time, but when I really think about it, no one’s ever done that for me before.
Not even Trevor. There was never a moment where it was needed, where it felt like I needed someone to step in like that.
Trevor always knew how to calm things down, how to smooth out the rough edges when things got heated.
He was steady, solid, a rock when I needed him to be.
But Miles? Miles was different. He was riled up, full of heat, full of fire.
He didn’t think about the consequences or who was watching. He just moved.
“I can wait,” he says quietly.
Greg’s eyes cut over to us. Protective. Sharp. The kind of look that tells me he’s already read this situation front to back and doesn’t like what he sees.
“I’m heading out,” Greg says, voice clipped, the faintest trace of something bitter under his usual even tone. “You good to close up, Viv?”
I nod, keeping my gaze focused on wiping down the counter even though I can feel the weight of his disapproval like it’s pressing against my spine. “Yeah, of course. I’ll see you Monday?”
Greg lingers. Doesn’t move. His gaze pinned to Miles, jaw tight like he’s trying to bite back words he knows he shouldn’t say in front of me.
Miles meets his stare head on, calm but unblinking. Like he knows exactly what Greg’s thinking, and he’s not backing down from it.
Something in the room tightens.
I hate how much it makes my stomach twist.
Greg finally exhales and grabs his coat. “Thanks. Enjoy your day off tomorrow with Riley,” he says, softer now, more himself.
He walks to the door but doesn’t leave right away. Pauses just long enough to throw one last glance over his shoulder, this one aimed solely at Miles.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Miles,” he says flatly.
Then he’s gone.
The door shuts behind him and the tension lingers, settled in the air between me and the man still standing across the room, hands still in his pockets, eyes still on me.