WE DRIVE HOME with the windows open, pine thick in the air and wind howling.

At a red light, Miles looks across the dark cab, sets his hand on mine on

the seat. My heart beats like a hummingbird at the back of my throat. I turn my palm up to his, let his fingers slide between mine.

We hold on to each other the whole way home, across the sidewalk to our building, up the stairs.

He gets the door unlocked, pulls me into the dark apartment, pushes me against the door.

Our breath is shallow. My heart is battering in my chest.

We’re right up against the ledge we’ve been sliding toward all summer, and I’m still trying to talk myself down when he kisses me.

A rough, breathless kiss that turns my legs to liquid. A kiss that breaks through every last bit of willpower I had. My hands slip up the back of his neck into his still-damp hair, and his hips lock with mine, months of need thrumming between us.

The kiss deepens, his tongue in my mouth, his teeth on my lip, his groan slipping down my throat to curl up in my low belly. His hand slides down my chest to cup me through my damp shirt, and I have no more patience.

I reach for the buttons on his pants. He helps me undo them. I pull his shirt off. He does the same with mine, both cast on the floor. We crash back into one another, move into the kitchen. He walks me back against the counter, his rough hands sliding around me to undo my bra, pull it off me, then pin my hips back to the counter while he looks at me.

“Gorgeous,” he says raggedly.

I pull him to me, gasp at the feeling of his chest flush against mine. He lifts me onto the counter and steps in closer, our bodies moving restlessly against each other, trying to find every last bit of friction, my thighs tight against his hips.

Kissing him is so different now that I know him. Now I understand that the breezy, carefree Miles I first met is only his topmost layer, that his nonchalant way of moving through the world is a product of self-control, but beneath that surface, he wants.

The last bite of cheesecake. The final sip of wine.

The bracing cool of the lake. To be kissed.

To be held.

To be protected.

He wants it all, even the things he’d never let himself ask for, or won’t let himself have.

His hand sifts across the back of my head and winds into my hair as our kiss coarsens.

The thrills going through my belly make me feel lightweight, helium- filled. Our teeth clink. A breathless laugh, his or mine, and then a deeper kiss. My hands down his back, my nails scraping over his goose-bumped shoulders.

I love how his skin feels, how it’s dry from exposure to the elements, and the smell of the winery never quite washes away.

I want him to know that I love it, so I tell him, in a whisper just beneath his ear, and he nuzzles into my throat, lets his hand graze down my chest, rolling against me until I can barely breathe.

Then he lowers himself between my knees, his hands light against my legs, his mouth warm and heavy on my low stomach, the crease of my hip, and then, eyes slanting up to mine, between my thighs. I lean back into my palms, breath quickening as he brushes my underwear aside, presses his mouth to me, murmurs my name in a low gravel that makes everything in me pull taut. I work my hips against him, his hands skating around to guide

my movement until I feel like I can’t breathe, can’t see, like my heart might crack through my ribs if I can’t have more of him.

“Condoms?” I whisper.

His eyes slice to mine, dark and inky. “Do you want to?”

I know what he means: not Do you want to use a condom but Do you want to do something that requires a condom, and I almost laugh, because I can’t imagine it being more obvious what I want.

“I do,” I say, “as long as you do.”

He stands, squeezing the back of my neck. “Stay here.”

When he comes back, he tosses the strip of them on the counter and pulls me back to him, a fierce, hungry kiss as we scrabble with each other’s pants. I get his off first, wrap a hand around him, and his head bows into my shoulder, his muscles going tight in a way that thrills me. I gently push him back by the shoulder, our eyes connecting as I slide off the counter, kneel in front of him.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs.

“I want to,” I tell him. And I do, like I never have before. His hand flutters into my hair as I take him in my mouth, a ragged sound scraping out of his throat. He moves with me, my hands climbing up his thighs, to his hips, guiding him.

“Daphne,” he says gruffly, shaking his head. “No more.”

Which is good, because hearing him this turned on is making it hard for me to keep going. He pulls me back up, our mouths melting together as his hands skim down me, peeling away my pants, then my underwear. For the first time we’re entirely bare together, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying and sensual having his arms wrapped around me, our thighs tangled together, feeling his pulse in so many different places as he bends to sweep a kiss along my trapezius, then another at my temple, then finally a soft kiss on my lips.

For several seconds, we’re tender, delicate, but soon the need wins out. He turns me by the hips, pushes me against the counter, and wedges himself between my thighs, teasing me until I’m practically crying, pushing myself back against him, pleading with him.

I hear the tear of foil packaging, and strain eagerly back against him, and seconds later, finally, he’s pushing slowly into me, and I am crying out, my whole back alive with goose bumps as his hands drag down me, settle at my hips, guiding me back to him feverishly. He slides one hand around my waist to nestle between my thighs as we move together.

The counter’s edge digs in my waist. His fingertips score into my hip. “More,” I say. There’s no such thing as enough.

He withdraws long enough to turn me back to him. We clamber back together for several dizzying, desperate seconds, and then we’re on the kitchen floor, and he’s biting me and I’m licking him, and my thighs are wound around his waist, our skin slick with sweat, his hips bucking into me. Like I’ve wanted. Like I’ve needed.

I realize I’ve said it aloud when he answers. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this, Daphne. How much I’ve needed you.”

“Miles,” I beg. It feels like more than just my body that’s about to come apart, like my heart is splitting at the seams, and it’s a terrifying, vulnerable feeling to break in front of him in this way, to be so unexpectedly and wholly at his mercy.

His hands come up to cup my face, our bodies keeping pace. “I know,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

So I let go. I break, every last knot coming undone, and he bites down on my shoulder as he shudders into me too.

The waves of sensation roar through me, the sound of our breath rushing into my ears, and light dancing across the back of my eyelids.

The waves draw back, our hearts still thundering, and he slides off of me, pulls me into a curl against his chest as we catch our breath.

I fling an arm over my eyes as a ludicrous wave of laughter overtakes me.

“Daphne?” Miles says, voice hoarse with alarm. “What’s wrong?” He moves my arm down so he can meet my eyes.

“Nothing,” I get out.

“Then why are you laughing?” he says, dubious.

I hardly understand my own reaction. “Because I’m happy, I guess.”

His smile widens. He leans down to kiss me, a sweet brush of his lips that lingers. I’m smiling too, our teeth lightly clinking. He brushes my sweat-streaked hair away from my forehead.

“You’re amazing,” he says quietly, which makes me laugh again. He casts a sleepy smile sidelong at me. “What’s so funny about that?”

I say, “You just make it sound like I did acrobatics.”

“You might have,” he says. “I blacked out for a few seconds in the middle there.”

I turn my face into his chest, chortling. His hand sweeps down my spine and back up, tucking itself at the base of my neck, beneath my sweaty hair. “I actually did,” he says.

“I think I did too,” I admit.

“Why was it like that?” he says, which makes me laugh more, a heavy, relaxing hum of emotion through my heavy, relaxed limbs.

“I don’t know,” I say.

There’s a long silence, his hand moving lazily over my hair, our breath in sync. Then he asks, “Are you hungry?”

For some reason, this makes my heart feel like it’s about to burst. “Starving.”

 

 

I TAKE A quick shower and put on pajamas while Miles starts making banana chocolate chip pancakes. When I’m done, I take over while he rinses off too, then pads back into the room in nothing but a pair of sweatpants and one new hickey I have no memory of giving him.

“Oh my god. I’m sorry,” I say, touching the spot on his collarbone. “Don’t be.” He takes the spatula from me with one hand and brushes the

hair away from my neck with his other. “You’re going to be wearing turtlenecks for weeks.”

He flips the last couple of pancakes onto the waiting plates, and we eat them there, standing up. Then he slides his empty plate away onto the counter and asks, “Do you want to talk about it now?”

“Talk about what,” I say.

“Your dick dad,” he replies.

“Maybe you didn’t notice,” I say, “but that ‘dick’ is essentially universally loved.”

“By strangers,” Miles says. “By people who don’t know him or need anything from him. Excuse me if I don’t find that impressive.”

“Well, you wouldn’t,” I say. “Because everyone instantly loves you too.

I’m the one here people don’t want around.”

He shakes his head, frowning. “Do you know how often you do that?” “Do what?” I ask.

“Act like my opinion doesn’t matter to you,” he says. My jaw drops. “Of course it matters.”

“Everything I say,” he replies, “it’s like, Oh, of course you’d say that, Miles, you’re just nice. Or, You don’t get it, because you’re you, or, my new favorite, You’re just like my asshole dad.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say. “At all.”

“You said no one wants you around,” he replies. “What about me?” “What about you?” I say.

“Me wanting you doesn’t count?” he asks, brows knitted together. A fiery heat wave, a series of them, one after another.

Me wanting you. Me wanting you. Me wanting you.

“It counts,” I say. It’s terrifying how much it counts. I set my plate aside. “What about you?”

“Me?” he says.

“I heard your phone call,” I confess.

He’s quiet, thoughtful, for several seconds. “It was my dad.” I start. “Your dad?”

“He’s been trying to call me nonstop,” he says, “from phone numbers that I don’t have blocked. So he could tell me to get Julia to call him back.”

I gawk. “I don’t understand.”

“Turns out they’ve been talking,” he says. “Which I’m guessing she didn’t tell me because she knew it would stress me out, waiting for him to fuck her over again. Which he did. He figured out where Jules worked, because she still lets him follow her on social media—which I warned her about—and he told our mom.

“She showed up at the restaurant. Upset Julia bad enough that she walked out. Got fired, blocked my dad, and got on an airplane here—not necessarily in that order—and now he’s harassing me to try to get her to forgive him.”

“Oh my god, Miles,” I say. “That’s terrible.” “I’m sorry.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Why?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t want to dump this on you.” “You’re not dumping it on me,” I promise.

“I’m used to keeping all of this separate. And nothing is, with you.

You’re my roommate and my best friend and the woman I just slept with.” My eyes burn. I try to blink away the feeling.

He’s looking at me like he’s trying to strain something out of me. “Daphne?”

“You’re my best friend too.” It comes out as a throaty whisper. “That’s why today was so hard, when my dad left.”

My throat twists, my voice wobbling: “Because you saw it. And it makes me feel pathetic. Even more so because the truth is, if he turned around and came right back here, I’d be thrilled. I’d forgive him again and again, just hoping that eventually I’d actually mean something to him. I’d call and beg him to come back, if I thought there was a chance he’d say yes. But I can’t, because I know he won’t. And I don’t want to hear that. I don’t want him to prove that I’m . . .”

I’m trying to find alternate words.

Because just saying these feels like codifying the truth into existence.

It’s painful to push them past the knot in my throat, but holding them in all these years hasn’t made me feel better, hasn’t made them less true, hasn’t stanched the bleeding or numbed the pain. “That I’m not worth it.”

“Hey.” Miles’s arms come around me, his heat and spicy ginger scent soaking into me.

“A part of me is just waiting,” I rasp, “for the moment when you see whatever it is that drives people away. And I don’t want that. I don’t want you to stop wanting me around. I think it might break my heart to be someone you don’t like.”

“Fuck. Daphne.” His hands come up to my face. “Do you want to know why your dad doesn’t stick around?”

Tears sting the back of my nose, but I nod. It’s the question I’ve never been able to stop asking, no matter how badly it hurts.

“Because you see him,” Miles says. “And he can’t stand it. And Peter’s the same shit with a different outfit, so bored with himself he convinced himself that being with someone like Petra would turn him into someone else, without, like, having to be brave enough to try acid.”

“He was bored with me, Miles,” I say.

“If it was about you,” he says, “he could’ve ended it. Instead he blew up his life. That’s about him. I’ve been that guy, a dozen times, with a dozen people I didn’t deserve. It’s easy to be loved by the ones who’ve never seen you fuck up. The ones you’ve never had to apologize to, and who still think all your ‘quirks’ are charming.

“It’s easy to be around people who don’t know you. But as soon as someone starts to figure you out—as soon as you can’t be perfect—it’s easier to move on. Find someone new to be the cool, fun, laid-back one with.”

“So that’s it?” My voice crackles. “I make people feel like their worst selves.”

“Daphne, no.” He pulls me in against him, his face buried in my neck. “God, no.” When he draws back, tense dimples have pricked his scruffy jaw. “Look, I’ve always wanted to be that fun, easy person with no baggage, even with Petra. But after a while, someone either finally sees you or they don’t, and either way it fucking sucks. Because if they see you, and it’s not what they signed up for, then they’re out of there. And if they never see you . . . it’s worse. Because you’re just alone.

“And I loved Petra,” he says, “but deep down I knew, as soon as things stopped being fun, she’d be gone. And she was. She found something more romantic, more perfect, just more. I think you’re the first person who’s really seen me. Past what I want people to see.

“You make the people you care about feel like . . .” He pauses. “Like you want all of them. Not just the good parts. And that’s terrifying to someone who’s spent a lifetime avoiding those other pieces of themselves.”

“I don’t want to scare people off,” I say, throat aching.

He shakes his head. “It’s worth being scared. Trust me. You’re worth it.” He kisses the center of my palm. Heat gathers in my belly. It builds between us. Just standing here in the kitchen with him is in the top three

most erotic moments of my life.

I lift my face, and he brushes his nose back and forth against mine. “You’re worth it, Daphne,” he says, hand soft on my jaw and eyes closed.

“Miles?” I whisper. “Hm?”

“I do,” I say. “I do want all those parts of you.”

His eyes open, molten, warm. “Good,” he says. “They want you too.” Then he kisses me. It’s perfect.

No, better than that. It’s every part of him, at once. “My room or yours?” I ask him.

“Yours,” he says. “First, yours.”