Miles's apartment has become my default crisis location. At this point, his couch should charge me rent.
"So," he says, handing me tea I didn't ask for but desperately need, "London. Your mother. On a scale of one to 'need hard liquor,' how bad was it?"
"Eleven." I curl into his couch, wrapping both hands around the mug. "She told me she never wanted children. That I was an accident she kept because my father convinced her to. That she felt nothing but obligation for fifteen years."
Miles settles beside me—closer than yesterday, though still careful. "Jesus, Rae."
"It gets better. Apparently my father became a controlling nightmare specifically to protect me from knowing my mother didn't love me. His whole villain arc was actually twisted parenting." I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to me.
"My entire understanding of my family was wrong. Every assumption, every resentment—built on incomplete information."
"That's..." He searches for words. "A lot to process in one transatlantic flight."
"I processed it with airline wine and a crying jag in the Heathrow bathroom. Very dignified. A businessman offered me tissues and his therapist's card."
"Did you take it?"
"The tissues. The card felt like admitting defeat. Also, he was wearing socks with sandals. I can't trust mental health recommendations from someone who's given up on basic fashion principles."
Miles snorts. "Solid boundary. Footwear choices are character indicators."
His hand finds my knee—tentative, questioning. When I don't pull away, his thumb traces small circles through the fabric of my jeans.
"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "you turned out okay. Despite the mother who felt nothing and the father who felt too much in all the wrong directions."
"Define 'okay.' I'm currently hiding from a board vote on your couch."
"You're preparing for a board vote on my couch. Completely different energy." His smile is soft, real. "You're not hiding. You're strategically regrouping."
"Is that what we're calling emotional breakdowns now?"
"I prefer 'aggressive self-care.'" He shifts closer. "Rae, about yesterday—what you said about choosing me when no one's watching..."
"I meant it." The words come easier now. "I'm here. Not because of the board or the inheritance or because Dorian withdrew—"
"Dorian withdrew?"
"Text came an hour ago. Something about being tired of being everyone's safe option." I set down my tea, turning to face him fully. "But that's not why I'm here. I'm here because your apartment smells like coffee and bad decisions, and it's the only place that's ever felt like home."
Miles's expression does something complicated—hope and fear and want all tangled together. "That's either very romantic or deeply concerning."
"Why not both?" I reach for him, fingers finding the collar of his shirt. "I'm tired, Miles. Tired of running, tired of pretending, tired of being so scared of wanting something that I convince myself I don't want it."
"What do you want?" His voice is rough, barely above a whisper.
"You. Just you. No audience, no agenda." I pull him closer, watching his pupils dilate. "Is that clear enough?"
His answer is his mouth on mine—not desperate like before, not angry or proving anything. Just certain. His hands cradle my face like I'm something precious, thumbs brushing my cheekbones while he kisses me slow and deep.
We migrate to his bedroom without urgency, shedding clothes between kisses. My shirt lands somewhere near the door. His follows. When my back hits the mattress, he hovers over me, eyes roaming like he's memorizing every detail.
"You're staring," I whisper.
"I'm savoring. There's a difference."
He lowers his mouth to my throat, trailing kisses down to my collarbone while his hands map the curves of my waist, my hips, the lace edge of my bra. He unclasps it with surprising dexterity and his lips close around one nipple, tongue flicking until I arch into him with a gasp.
He lavishes attention on each breast, alternating between gentle suction and teasing bites that send sparks straight to my core. When he finally releases my nipple with a wet sound, I'm already trembling.
His mouth travels lower. Kisses pressed to my ribs, my stomach, the sensitive skin above my waistband. He peels off my jeans and underwear together, settling between my thighs with an expression that borders on reverent.
"Miles—"
"Let me." His breath is warm against my center. "I want to taste you when you're not running from anything."
The first stroke of his tongue makes my hips buck. He pins them down gently, licking into me with slow, deliberate focus—learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan. He explores me thoroughly, tracing patterns around my clit before dipping lower, fucking me with his tongue until I'm writhing.
He slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right while his mouth returns to my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming—his fingers pumping steadily, his tongue flicking in counterpoint. When he seals his lips around my clit and sucks, I shatter with his name breaking from my throat.
He works me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks roll through. Then he's crawling back up my body, and I'm reaching for him, shoving his boxers down with graceless desperation.
His cock springs free, hard and heavy. I wrap my fingers around him, stroking once, twice. He groans into my neck, hips jerking into my grip.
"Rae—if you keep doing that, this is going to be embarrassingly short."
"Then get inside me."
He notches himself at my entrance, pausing just long enough to meet my eyes—a question, a confirmation, a promise. Then he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, letting me feel every bit of the stretch.
When he's fully seated, we both still. Foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged, the connection feels bigger than physical. He's inside me, around me, everywhere at once, and I've never felt so completely held.
He moves slowly at first—deep, rolling thrusts that build pressure without rushing toward release. His pelvis grinds against my clit with each stroke, sending aftershocks rippling through my still-sensitive flesh.
"Look at me," he murmurs, and I do.
His eyes hold mine as we find our rhythm. Every thrust feels like a promise. Every kiss tastes like finally. He hooks one of my legs over his hip, changing the angle, and I cry out as he hits something devastating inside me.
"There?" he asks, and when I nod frantically, he does it again. And again. Building me toward a second peak with patient, relentless precision.
"Miles—I'm going to—"
"I know. I can feel you." His voice is strained, control fraying. "Come for me, Rae. Let me feel it."
When I come the second time, it's with his name on my lips and his eyes locked on mine. My walls clench around him, and he follows moments later with a broken groan, spilling inside me in hot pulses.
We collapse together, sweat-slicked and breathing hard. He rolls us so I'm half-draped across his chest, arms wrapped around me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
After, tangled in his sheets, I trace patterns on his chest while his fingers card through my hair.
"The board votes tomorrow," I murmur.
"I know."
"I might lose everything."
"You won't." His arm tightens around me. "But even if you did—I'd still be here. That's the point, Rae. I'm not going anywhere."
For the first time, I believe him.