[Miles' POV]
My phone buzzes on the coffee table like it's personally offended by my existence. After four days of carefully crafted silence, Rae finally texts: "Vietnamese place. Tonight. 7pm. No more silence."
I stare at it for thirty seconds, cataloging all the ways this will end badly. Then type back: "K."
One letter. Maximum damage, minimum effort. The three dots appear and disappear four times. Good. Let her overthink for once.
I arrive at the restaurant early because apparently self-torture is my brand.
Same cracked vinyl booths where we've dissected her dating disasters. Same flickering neon making everyone look jaundiced. Same menu I've memorized but pretend to study because eye contact feels like admitting something.
She slides into the opposite booth exactly on time, looking like she'd rather be getting audited.
"The usual?" I ask without looking up.
"Miles..."
"Already ordered." I flag down the waiter. "And bring the wine list. Actually, just bring a bottle of whatever's strong and doesn't taste like regret."
The waiter, who's seen us through various stages of dysfunction, doesn't even blink. "The house red it is."
Rae watches me pour generous glasses with the focus of someone witnessing a crime. "Since when do you drink wine with pho?"
"Since my fake girlfriend started kissing me to win arguments with her grandmother." I take a large sip. It tastes like poor decisions. Perfect.
She downs half her glass in response. "I apologized for that."
"No, you said 'it was just an act.' Different thing entirely."
The pho arrives, giving us something to focus on besides the grenades we're lobbing. I pour more wine. She matches me glass for glass, and by the second bottle, the edges of everything have gone soft and dangerous.
"You want to know the truth?" She's gesturing with her chopsticks, which should be ridiculous but isn't. "I'm terrified of ending up like my mother. Disappearing into someone else until there's nothing left."
"And you think that's what I'm doing?" The wine makes me brave. Or stupid. Same difference. "Disappearing into you?"
"Aren't you?" She leans forward, eyes bright with alcohol and accusations. "Miles the dedicated friend. Miles the problem solver. When's the last time you did something just for you?"
"Tuesday." I drain my glass. "I ate an entire pizza and watched a documentary about penguins. Very self-actualizing."
"That's not—"
"What do you want me to say, Rae? That I've spent years being your emergency contact for everything? That I know you hate roses but sell them anyway because rebellion via flowers is very you?"
The wine is making me reckless, each word sharper than the last.
"That I have your coffee order memorized for every season? That this whole fake dating thing is killing me because—" I stop, catching myself before the wine makes me say something irreversible.
She's spinning her wine glass, watching the liquid swirl. "Because you hate lying."
"Sure. Let's go with that." I pour another glass, noting we're well into the second bottle. The restaurant has that underwater quality that comes with too much wine and not enough food. "Better than admitting we're both disasters pretending to be functional adults."
"Because what?" Her voice is smaller now, uncertain.
"Because it's exhausting pretending to be something we're not." True enough without being true.
She pours another glass, missing slightly so wine pools on the table like blood. "I went to a museum with Dorian."
The non sequitur hits like cold water. "What?"
"Beatrice made me. Yesterday." She's not looking at me now. "He was actually... funny. Made jokes about sexually frustrated orchids. It was confusing."
Something hot and ugly rises in my chest. "Glad you had fun on your not-date with merger Ken doll."
"It wasn't—" She stops, frustrated. "God, why is this so complicated? We had rules. Boundaries. This was supposed to be simple."
"Nothing with you is ever simple." The words come out rougher than intended, wine stripping my usual filters. "You're complicated and messy and you leave coffee cups everywhere and somehow I'm the idiot who—"
"Who what?"
Who loves you. Who's always loved you. Who can't say it because she's not ready to hear it and maybe never will be.
"Who agreed to this insane plan." I signal for the check. "We should go. I'm drunk and you're... also drunk."
We stumble the three blocks to my apartment, her hand occasionally grabbing my arm for balance. Inside, everything feels too bright and too real. She collapses on my couch while I get water, trying to ignore how comfortable she looks in my space.
"I can't be what you need," she says suddenly, staring at the ceiling.
"I'm not asking you to be anything." I hand her the water, our fingers brushing. Even that minimal contact feels like touching a live wire.
"But you want... things. More than this."
"We're drunk, Rae. Let's not—"
"God, why are we even pretending?" She sits up, eyes too bright. "We're friends. Best friends. That's it. That's all we've ever been."
"Right." The word tastes like ash. "Just friends."
"Exactly." She laughs, but it's sharp, brittle. "Friends who got roped into this stupid fake dating thing because I'm too stubborn to marry Dorian and too proud to let my father win."
She stands unsteadily, moving closer. "And now we're drunk and angry and everything's a mess."
We're standing too close now, that dangerous distance where I can smell her shampoo and count her eyelashes. The wine makes everything feel inevitable and terrible simultaneously.
"This is a bad idea," I say, not moving away.
"The worst," she agrees, her hand finding my shirt.
But then something snaps. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's hearing "it was just an act" one too many times. Maybe it's years of watching her kiss other people while I fixed her spreadsheets.
I'm moving before I can think better of it, crowding her against the wall, my hands braced on either side of her head. She gasps—surprise, not fear—and that's all the permission I need.
The kiss is nothing like the golf course. This is me taking what I've wanted for years, angry and desperate and done with being the safe option. She makes a sound against my mouth—shocked, then something else entirely—and her hands find my shirt, pulling me closer instead of pushing away.
I taste wine on her tongue and something darker—maybe we're both using each other tonight. She thinks this is about forgetting Dorian, about rebellion. She has no idea this is years of rejection finally breaking through my carefully maintained control.
And right now, I don't care if she knows.
My hands are in her hair, her back against the wall, the coffee table knocked sideways when I lift her, carry her to the kitchen counter. Every careful boundary we've ever maintained incinerated. I've imagined this too many times to be gentle about it now.
I set her on the counter harder than necessary, step between her legs, my hands gripping her thighs. For once, I'm not asking permission, not waiting for her to make the first move, not being the good, patient Miles who's always there.
This is revenge—for every guy she dated while I watched. For every time she called me her "best friend" to someone she was sleeping with. For "it was just an act" still ringing in my ears like a verdict.
I pull back just enough to see her face—flushed, breathing hard, eyes wide with something that might be want or might be shock. My thumb traces her jaw, possessive in a way I've never let myself be.
"Tell me to stop." My voice comes out rough, almost unrecognizable. "Tell me right now.” Because if she doesn't, I'm going to take everything I've wanted for years, and tomorrow she can pretend it meant nothing, but tonight—tonight she’s mine.
She stares at me like she's never seen me before. Maybe she hasn't. Then she leans forward, bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and whispers against my mouth:
"Don't stop."