Chapter Twenty-One

Miles

"H oney, I'm home," I announce in my softest voice.

It's early, but I don't want to risk waking Zoe. She rests too little—not that she's said a word, but on the days she's alone, she's crankier than usual, red cobwebs marring the white of her eyes and a heavier layer of makeup meant to hide the insomnia. But I also don't want a repeat of previous scares.

Zoe's shout carries an unconcealed sleepy note. "I'm awake!"

As I step into the living room, she bolts upright only to plop back down onto the sofa.

"Hey, love."

"I swear I'm awake. I just had to close my eyes for a second to see something," she mumbles with drowsiness.

On my haunches, I kiss her temple and breathe her in—no rational explanation as to how her sweet flowery scent instantly slows my heart rate and increases it at the same time, but it does.

Unfortunately, it's not flowers that my nose registers .

"Were you doing fire spells in my absence?" Her eyes open wide as she kicks her favorite blanket and jumps over the sofa. As she rushes to the kitchen, her socks slip on the floor, and she's close to sliding down to the next room or literally face planting on the floor. It would be comical if I weren't too busy worrying about sprained ankles and (more) forehead stitches. "Zoe, slow down!" I warn, knowing it'll fall on deaf ears. "You'll hurt yourself."

"Slow down?" She repeats incredulously, furiously stabbing the oven's buttons. "I'm about to set the house on fire, there's no time for slow!" There is, however, plenty of time to set me straight. Trying to point a finger at me while slipping her hand inside a pink kitchen glove, she ends up waving her arms senselessly. "Don't order me around!"

"As long as you don't get hurt, set whatever you want on fire. I'll get the fucking matches."

The oven blows a cloud of smoke in her face.

"I promise if I bleed on these beautiful floors, I'll scrub them clean with my own hands." She coughs, frantic gloved-hands waving to disperse the smoke, the smell.

"You couldn't clean to save yourself from jail."

Once the windows are ajar, I make my way to the island, morbidly curious of the damage.

She twists her nose, holding her breath as she reaches for her carbonized victim.

"Don't get too comfortable. I could learn for you." The smile she shoots me behind the thin veil of smoke billowing from her hands is an attempt at sinister, thoroughly undermined by the light pink oversized t-shirt, another one she's slipped from my pile, and smiling red mushroom socks she wears .

"Noooo!" she whines, pouting at whatever she intended to bake like it personally wounded her, rather than the other way around. It's beyond salvation. Beyond recognition, too. "I really thought I'd finally gotten it, this time."

I poke at it with a kitchen knife—not ashes, not too far from it. "This time?"

Hands on her waist, Zoe scowls at the oven like it has a personal vendetta against her and is entirely to blame for the baking fiasco. "You don't wanna know."

Which means she doesn't want to tell.

Keeping my laughter trapped inside my chest, I vacate the space as Zoe prepares the incinerated thing for a burial in the trash by maiming and mutilating it. Reinforcements are desperately needed to face the woman in her current predicament.

Wiping the counter, she watches from the corner of her eye as I come back armed with a pastry box. Unable to stop myself, I step close behind her to set it in front of her. "Lucky for you, I'm one step ahead."

Suspicious, she examines the fancy thing topped with a handle, tied with a silky bow.

Smoke still dominates the room. I want to bury my nose in her hair, find the flowers in that fallen mess that can't be called a ponytail anymore.

I carefully slide the scrunchie off. When my nails run against her scalp as I tame the wild curls into the tie, a soft sigh escapes her. I move away to wash my hands in the sink, afraid I'll kiss the nape of her neck—or palm it and pull her to me.

"Go ahead." I wipe my hands on a dish towel, then swat her butt with it. "It won't bite. "

She jolts and jumps around sharply.

"I do." Her irises glint. "Bite."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" The three steps needed to close the distance are slow, giving her time to step away.

She doesn't.

She goes on her toes to grip the countertop behind her and leans back against the island. The tips of my toes touch hers, my hands massive beside hers on the cool marble as I bend to drop my voice. "Careful, love. Chances are, I'll enjoy it."

Our eye contact breaks with my need to watch her take a ragged breath through parted lips.

Behind Zoe, my fingers busy themselves untying the bow of the box until it's just a strip of silky fabric.

From the corner of her eye, she inspects my ministrations."It was a pretty bow."

"Pretty…" I muse, eyes greedy to memorize every detail of her features.

The small dark dot on the curve of her upper lip, imperceptible to anyone who doesn't spend their daydreams watching her mouth.

The raised skin on her forehead, the size of my thumb, a little less angry with every day that passes.

Her eyes that won't settle on green or blue, a perfect blend of both.

When I look up again, they're on my mouth.

"Yeah. Pretty."

I tie a new bow, this time around her ponytail. With my arms around her, we're enclosed in an even tighter cocoon—the entire world neatly folded in the inches that host our breaths.

Her knuckles mirror the hue of the beige marble, keeping her upright—keeping her back. "You undid it, though."

"Yeah?" A tug at her ponytail—it falls into cascades of curly ink. "I rather enjoy undoing pretty things."

We follow the silky strip, floating as it falls.

"You're good at it, too." The natural rasp of her voice dips deeper with light breathlessness.

And she dips below my arms to bury her hot cheeks in the cold breath of the fridge.

On the tips of her toes, Zoe reaches for a carton of milk, which she places on the counter before she bends to rummage the freezer. The stolen hoodie rises higher to flash barbed wire and—

Time to retreat!

I carry plates and the box to the coffee table, listening for her steps. What comes next, though, is more cabinets opening, closing.

From the sofa, I see her deposit ingredients into a blender. Cubes of ice, oreos, vanilla ice cream are scattered along the countertop.

"Don't forget to close the lid!" I yell in fake panic, seeing it already closed and secured.

I see the fraction of a second she ponders taking the lid off again just to contradict me, but the imminent mess—and her lack of cleaning skills—determine her decision. Not worth it.

Unimpressed, she locks eyes with mine and taps the button, unflinching at the loud noise, with a deadpan look like she's envisioning using the machine on me. She splits the liquid in two tall cups, topping each with a pink paper straw.

"Milkshakes," I conclude. "We're going crazy tonight, I see."

"All in or nothing, love. "

My heart punches my ribs, once, twice, stopping my wishful thinking, my over thinking all the possible meanings of a simple statement.

"Turns out you do learn things with Camila. No whipped cream, though. That would've been too much."

I shoot a pointed look at the sugar overdose in front of us. "The whipped cream would be too much."

She shrugs. "We also don't have any since Mila came for brunch and finished it with strawberries and melted chocolate."

I snort. Camila would need to hop up on sugar to fuel her chaotic energy.

Zoe sits on the carpeted floor, salivating at the spread of muffins: two of each flavor. Red velvet, carrot with chocolate chips, triple chocolate, blueberry, and my personal favorite, cookie dough with extra chocolate chips. A sweet-tooth heaven. And possibly diabetes.

Instead of saving the best for last, as she tends to, she surprises me by starting with her favorite. If the long moan is any indication, the carrot surpasses her expectations. It's getting hard to watch her, so I focus on my own.

"I'm not even mad at the oven anymore," she confirms my earlier assumptions. "It knew better than I." With the windows ajar, a balmy August draft trickles inside, replacing the cool conditioned air. "Have you finished your answers?"

Chocolate smudges the corners of Zoe's mouth. The girl who won't let anyone lay an eye on her, unless she looks pristine, doesn't hide from me anymore. Damn if that doesn't make my stomach jump, flip, and do all the crazy things it only does when it comes to Zoe.

For a moment too long,I relish in the comfort and intimacy we've created.

"No," I confess sheepishly.

Since she had to step back from her job, she's decided to busy herself with a new project, unable to stay still. She hasn't fully disclosed the entirety of her idea, revealing only the premise: reclaiming a pro-athlete's humanity, whatever that means.

I can't say no to her.

"Why?" she asks, chocolate painting her white teeth.

"I was writing, but my phone pinged and it was the horoscope. I couldn't ignore the horoscope."

To her credit, she doesn't even blink. Used to my interests by now, she's aware I'm a believer of the stars.

"At least give me the short version."

"Oh." I'm surprised she wants to know, but I recover quickly. "Okay. This week is prone to misunderstandings for Aquarius, so be aware of communications, miscommunications and all that. For Leos it was supposed to be a week of professional accomplishments, though, so considering we lost today, maybe I should switch apps."

Her hand reaching for my cookie dough freezes. Her face crumples drastically, a poem of astonishment and hilarity.

"The answers, Miles. A short version of your answers!" She laughs furiously, clutching her stomach as she rolls to her side on the carpet.

"Oh . " I scratch the blush in my cheeks, but I'm laughing, too. "That makes more sense."

"Oh my God, you are ridiculous ."

Zoe stutters between gulps of air and laughter, mist pooling in the corners of her eyes.

And just like that, all that matters is she's radiant and I'm the reason. I would change careers and become a full-time clown if it made her laugh like that, hard and heartfelt, only once more. Maybe not a clown—she hates them, and I'm… not a fan. But anything she finds funny, I'd be it.

She sobers, pulling her body to a sitting stance and launching about her project in between mouthfuls, all rushed words and twirling hands.

And like this, looking like she knows she's exactly where she belongs, I can pretend she's mine just as much as I'm hers.

All my life, I've wanted so many things. So many dreams… Yet, if this is all I ever get, I'd be a lucky man. The happiest fucking guy in the world.

But what about Zoe? Can I steal her future just because I want to be happy?

"What's the worst part of all of this for you?" I blurt out.

For a moment, she picks at the crumbs in her plate, pursing her mouth in thought. "I guess I can't go out in pajamas anymore."

Not what I expected. "I'm gonna need you to elaborate, love."

"Pajamas are my favorite clothes." And here she is, wearing my t-shirt. "I'd go to work in pajamas, if I could. Not those cute silk things or sexy nightgowns—I don't even own one of those. I like my comfy ratty things that make me look like I'm having a midlife crisis."

"I happen to see the appeal of the look."

I do. I love her all messy, all raw, real, rough edges.

With a stern look, she reprimands me for the interruption. I mime the zip of my mouth, and hand her the invisible key.

"Since this," she says, signaling us with the wave of a finger, "started, people recognize me. Not often, but it's happened. I shit you not, a kid asked me for a selfie. A selfie. With me." She pokes her chest in disbelief. "So there's a possibility someone might see me and snap a pic. Imagine I end up a meme online? I don't have the psychological structure or the self-confidence to be a joke on social media. I'm the wicked ice queen."

Doesn't she see? She's the furthest thing from wicked or icy.

"Now I always get all dressed up when I go out. Even if it's only a run to the grocery store," she surmises with a shrug, busying herself unwrapping red velvet.

"I'm sorry. I never meant to put you through any of this when I steamrolled you into… us."

I am.

Sorry.

I unleashed the chain of events that brought us here. I'm responsible for the scar on her forehead. I cost her the job she loves. I made it impossible for her to feel completely free in her own daily life, whether that means her outfit or her itinerary.

I know she's everything I want, but is it right for me to want her to want me? Is it selfish?

All I've brought her is stitches, scrutiny, solitude.

"You didn't steamroll me into anything. I had a choice." She plays with a dark curl before pushing it behind her pierced ear. "And what if someone did catch me in old clothes? I'm just too much of a control freak. I was taught not to let others see me without my armor. Cultivate a proper image, maintain it under all circumstances."

I don't point out it's exactly what she's allowing me to see. I don't point out she hasn't hidden from me for a long, long time, her ice queen act dropped behind the curtains of our home.

Zoe throws a snowy pillow at my face. "Your turn."

"My turn?"

Aware I'm avoiding the question, she arches a brow. "The worst part of this. For you?"

She watches with intent as I stuff my mouth with baked blueberries. Not because I need time to think of an answer. Because I immediately have it.

The worst part of us is the sweetest part.

To have her close all the time—so damn close, so far away. She's one arm away, yet I can't reach for her.

I would sacrifice the world for her. But am I ready to sacrifice this, whatever relationship we've built over the past few months, for a possibility at something real?

Is there even a possibility, at all?

I'm too afraid to reach for her only to find a cloud of smoke vanishing through my fingers, a delusion fueled by wishful thinking.

"I might need a new wardrobe," I say. I run a thumb over my bottom lip, eyeing her deliberately, head to naked legs to mushroom toes. "Seeing as you keep stealing my clothes."

Zoe looks down, seeing herself through my dilating pupils. "'Cause they look better on me."

"Yeah," I murmur. "They do."

"So." She pulls the hair from her ears, covering the faint pink on her cheeks. Then, as though she forgets herself, she tucks the same strands again. "I'm doing you a favor."

"Yeah?" I drag myself closer to her on the carpet. "So, you're wearing them for me?"

"Don't flatter yourself." She's quick to deny .

I rub the same thumb over the corner of her mouth to wipe smudged chocolate, her breath fanning it as it hitches. I I bring the thumb back to my mouth and lick the chocolate, taking my time to taste it. "So you wear my clothes for you?"

She lifts her eyes from my finger on my mouth, sensing a hidden double entendre in the question she barely heard.

"I wear them because I want to." She raises her chin. "And because I have to do my laundry."

I don't think all her clothes are dirty, but I don't point that out. "Hm. I might start stealing your clothes, too."

"You can." She mirrors me, gaze crawling over me like mine had over her. "Sorry to disappoint, though—I don't think they'll fit you."

"I don't want to wear your clothes, love. I don't want you to wear them, either." I tug the hem of my shirt she wears. "I like you in mine. You look good in them."

Holding my eyes for one, two, three heartbeats, Zoe pulls herself to trembling knees.

"Yeah?" She leans, a whisper caressing the shell of my ear. "I look so much better without them."

Groaning at the high ceilings, as image after image of Zoe in my clothes and Zoe out of my clothes crowds the forefront of my skull, I pinch my eyes shut like it might help.

It's futile.

She's carved into my eyelids.

"Sweet dreams, Blackstein."

When I open my eyes, I find Zoe tied a crooked silky bow around my wrist, right beside her scrunchie.