Chapter Five

Zoe

"H ot date, love?"

I startle, keychain flying from my hand, nosediving to the floor. A long sigh drags out of my chest, and even that seems to take a lot more effort, a lot more than usual.

After one long day at work that stretched into two days after an all-nighter, I arrived home hungry, cranky, exhausted, only to find the fridge empty. And the pantry. Due to my limited patience—even more limited cooking skills—I settled for a quick run to the grocery store instead of, like any sane person, resorting to takeout.

Takeout would be a band-aid solution to a stitch-needing cut—I'll be hungry again tomorrow and will, again, face an empty fridge. So instead of doing what any sane person would do, focusing on filling my belly tonight and worrying about the rest tomorrow, I had to address the issue at its root without further delays.

I set my tote bags on the floor, rotating my left arm, numb from the weight of groceries that had better last at least until next month.

"Oh right!" Miles snaps his fingers as though a light bulb lit up in his head. "They belong to me, now."

Determined to shoo him away, I spin slowly to scowl at him until he squirms a little. Instead, he loses some of his perpetual mischief—not all, never entirely—and becomes more assessing as he gazes at me with such thoroughness that I suspect his intentions are the same as mine.

I bend down—not to avoid him—to pick up the keys. Miles gets there quicker, grabbing the bags in the same movement, somehow unlocking and opening the door before I stretch to my full height.

"Love the outfit, by the way."

Old pajamas, untamable curls all messy in a ponytail, one-day-old makeup caked around my eyes. In my haste, I had still taken the time to change working clothes to my much comfier pajamas before I willingly drove to the grocery store wearing cotton bees and a puffer jacket. Like normal people do.

His gaze drops slowly, sucking all the air molecules until the baggy clothes feel skin-tight and suffocating.

I'm opening my mouth to point him to a shorter way to hell when he tips his head, ordering me to get inside without words.

So arrogant, so commanding, the slight tip of his head and those dimples, that I want to dig my heels and scream like a toddler even though it's my own damn home.

I get in his face. Or rather, point my finger at his face—height difference and all.

"Don't you ever"—I mimic his head-tip—"me again. Understand? "

His dimple winks. Like a trigger, it unravels a chain of events. My eyes slit, Miles raises his hands in surrender, my eyes narrow impossibly further.

"Okay. Sorry about the—" He does it again, the head-tip, laughter lighting his eyes. "Please, just come inside."

My urgency plummets exponentially. I'm a lot less eager to eat when it's clear he intends to follow.

"What do you want?" I cross my arms, tapping the point of my sneaker on the floor.

"You've been avoiding me."

Denial sounds like confirmation. Confirmation sounds like the truth. I say nothing. Instead, I enter my apartment, veering right for the kitchen.

Walking into my kitchen like it's his kitchen, Miles begins unpacking the groceries and putting them away. A blatant invasion of privacy that should set me on edge—I don't even like it when cashiers scan through my purchases, which, by the way, is their job description.

Weirdly, although I'm bothered by most things Miles does—like breathing, for instance, or feeling so at home in my home—his acting as my personal servant doesn't bother me. Perhaps I'm getting used to his lack of boundaries. Which won't do. Just because recurrence forms a habit which inspires familiarity, doesn't mean it's right or to be accepted.

"What do you want, Blackstein?" I repeat, still wearing my favorite scowl.

I, for one, want to drop on my dreamy bed, food already forgotten, and be dead to the world until the next morning. Instead, I fold my arms in an attempt to inject some much-needed sternness into the conversation.

This is getting too casual for my comfort .

"I've been waiting for you."

Miles sifts through the cabinets, not even having to make the effort to stretch his entire body on his tiptoes or climb a freaking chair to reach for a plate.

My cabinets, in my kitchen, in my apartment.

I growl.

No.

In a show of perfect timing, my stomach growls in hunger. I don't even have it in me to feel embarrassed—not that I should be embarrassed of natural body sounds—but my arms surround my midriff, anyway.

Miles hears it, too, if the second in which he freezes is any indication. Then, quick as lightning, he sets the tote bag on the countertop next to the sink, and brushes past me.

Finally, we're getting somewhere.

"Go take a shower and get ready for bed."

My eyes slit again—or maybe they hadn't yet widened—unhappy with how bossy he sounds, even if a shower and bed is exactly where I was headed.

"If you're trying to insult me, try again."

"That's not at all what I'm doing." He exhales in resignation, and leaves, without bothering to close the door properly.

I stare at the space he just occupied like he vanished into a magician's hat, stomach turning and head spinning from his total one-eighty until I shake myself.

This is exactly what I've been waiting for.

Silence and solitude and sleep.

Under the spray of scalding water, I see Boston below, buildings and buildings breathing with life inside. Behind the shower glass doors, I feel far, far away disconnected and alone .

The water slides down my skin. It clings, engulfing me in a warm hug.

My eyes shut. My muscles relax. My breath slows. I'm two seconds from falling asleep on my feet when thunder stirs me up. Apparently, my stomach still demands a detour before bed.

Body covered by goosebumps and a white towel, I pad barefoot through the heated floors, absently running a microfiber towel through my hair to towel dry my curls and considering the cereal selection currently available in my pantry.

Somewhere along the way, a rich smell triggers my salivary glands—and a furrow between my eyebrows. My sole meal of the day consisted of a chicken and avocado bagel and black coffee approximately ten hours ago, but I don't think I'm at the hallucination stage of starvation yet.

The next second, my confusion turns to terror when I see a broad back. I jump back and scream—and through my own noises, I think I hear a shriek tear from him too.

Miles fumbles with the spoon he just fished out of the drawer, an effort that resembles juggling, barely able to catch it, as it bounces from hand to hand before landing solidly in his palm.

"Do you have ninja feet or somet—" Miles turns with a hand on his chest. Then, abruptly, that hand falls, spoon clattering to the floor.

For the longest moment, he doesn't blink. Gray gaze stays glued on me, burning so intense that I almost feel naked.

Which reminds me that I'm one towel away from actually being naked.

The goosebumps, which at some point had disappeared, return. Sharper under his scrutiny. I clutch the towel to my body, a shield in more ways than one.

"What the fuck are you doing here? How did you get in?"

He blinks. He finally blinks and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

"I brought you dinner." Miles smiles, but it isn't quite right. His jaw is tight, his eyes don't crinkle around the corners, his dimples don't flash. "Hope you like lasagna," he adds, clearing the roughness from his voice.

A steaming dish sits on the island next to a plate and a glass of water. I want to refuse. I want to scream he has no business being here, breaking and entering. But, also, I don't want to turn down a good meal—because that lasagna does sound and smell so much better than a bowl of cereal. I am a hostage of my stomach.

In the small seconds I war with myself, Miles retrieves the spoon from the floor and turns to the sink.

"Hurry up and put some clothes on before it gets cold," he says, washing the spoon with more force than needed.

This would normally be the breaking point where I would snap. That hasn't earned a successful track record. Perhaps a change in tactic is overdue.

Two can play the game.

"Maybe I don't want to put some clothes on." He freezes, like the cold water violently battering his hands under the faucet spreads to his entire body. "Maybe I usually eat dinner just like this, clad in a towel, still hot and so wet."

We stand like that for seconds that seem centuries. A small infinity.

The clock ticks on the wall, the seconds heavy with my provocation hanging in the air. Miles breathes in slow, measured puffs.

When he spins slow, slow, slowly, it seems like an eternity has passed and all the droplets have evaporated—or maybe they're boiling on my skin.

"Zoe," Miles rasps my name, rough and guttural, his broad shoulders bigger and tenser as his hands splay carefully on the island between us.

A sharp thrill shoots through my spine. A twisted sense of victory from having successfully made him uncomfortable. That the smirks, the teasing, the innuendo have been turned on him.

His hands, his massive hands with long elegant fingers and protruding veins, all splayed and strong holding himself, biceps flexing with his grips. His eyes are silver lava, flickering shadows I can't blame on the long lashes, cheekbones carved from marble.

A different sort of thrill races through my veins, slower, thoroughly scorching, as I see him in a whole different light. A beast bursting at the seams, the stitches of his own skin and his sweatshirt. Predator studying prey. A man who wanted something he didn't want to want.

"Go put some clothes on before I sit you on your knees and spoon feed you myself."

I don't hate Miles Blackstein.

Hate is a strong word and I refuse to waste my precious time and energy on him—either entertaining thoughts of slapping the smirk off his face or choking his salacious jokes down his throat or kissing his muscled ass, as most do.

I don't particularly appreciate his existence most of the time.

Mostly, I don't like the person I become around him; someone I don't recognize.

I will not waste time on Miles Blackstein, but I have spent many midnights analyzing myself. My erratic uncharacteristic behavior is directly—exclusively—connected to Mr. Number Nine, sprouting from his nearness and general existence.

If he's a match, I'm dynamite. He scratches and scrapes until he sets me afire and sets me off.

Which explains why I just said that—and what happens next.

I blush.

My blood lights up in a flame that burns my cheeks scarlet.

So I have no option but to whirl around, scurry down my hallway, and barricade myself in the safety of my room.

I lotion my body and my curls, erasing the episode from my memory, hoping he'll be gone by the time I finish—knowing he won't leave before he's sure I've eaten. He would wait the whole night. He's stubborn like that.

On the couch, Miles lounges with his head tipped back towards the ceiling, hands intertwined covering his closed eyes, oblivious to some New Girl rerun on the TV.

"Dinner is in the oven," he says, weariness lacing his words.

Caught staring at him, I retrieve the food from the kitchen in silence.

In the oven, the food no longer steams, just hot enough to be consumed. I resent him a little more. That in the wake of whatever happened, he had the thoughtfulness to put the food away, so it would not go cold, anticipating I'd evade him for long.

Setting the lasagna on the coffee table, I settle cross-legged on my ugly Persian rug and dig in. The food is good. So goddamn heavenly I can't contain a groan at the first taste. And the second.

Miles slides from the couch, in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, much like what I wear—except he's all beige, and I'm all black—sitting next to me on the floor, gifting me his whole attention.

It's unnerving, receiving his undivided attention without knowing what's going through his head.

I stare ahead and force myself to focus on Jess's whiny voice.

"That's my favorite sitcom." He breaks the silence.

His body is angled in my direction, all tuned to me. One long leg stretched, the other bent at the knee; one arm propped up on the sofa behind him—and me—and the other reaching for the remote to turn the volume down.

The lights are dim, his voice low. Behind him, the vast expanse of the city glitters through my floor-to-ceiling windows. The moment feels intimate. Almost romantic.

I reprimand myself and chase the thought away.

"Excuse me?"

" New Girl 's my favorite sitcom." His smile is sheepish, so unlike his usual smirk, making him look boyish and almost adorable. Almost. "Schmidt is my favorite character."

I hum, unsure how to respond and uninterested in engaging in conversation, and repress a yawn.

"I'm sorry to be here so late. You look tired. I didn't mean to add to that."

I tap my phone and see it isn't even 11pm. To a pro-athlete, I suppose one minute after nine qualifies as late .

"Thanks again," I grumble. I can't be offended by the truth. I am tired.

"I said you look tired, not bad. I waited for you yesterday but didn't hear you come in." Miles frowns, like the thought bothers him—that I was out so late, I might have spent the night out.

"In case you don't know, the primary transfer window closed at midnight."

Finally . I love my job, but I loathe the work I've been doing the past week—on top of obsessively preparing for my official debut on the sidelines next weekend.

These days, anyone with access to the internet can start unfounded rumors and spin fabricated narratives based on nothing but a sick desire to create chaos. It's glaring during transfer windows—the period of the season when the clubs can loan, sell, and sign athletes. We must check each rumor spread by every lunatic or funny joker, to see if it's fabricated or if there might be some truth in it, before it can make the news.

"I spent the last 48 hours buried in rumors about transfer moves—digging them up from the ends of the internet. Forgive me if my judgment is a little impaired and it's taking me a second too long to process the crap that comes out of your mouth." I tap the fork against my bottom lip, once, twice, feigning a pensive manner. "And not a peep about you…"

It might toe a threat, but it's not one. I just want the enjoyment of toying with him a little.

I watch him raptly. For nothing. Miles doesn't rise to the bait.

"You spent the night at work? And tonight you're getting in at ten?" He sounds like my father. If my father cared. "You need to rest, Zoe, or you'll drive yourself into an early grave or burnout before you hit your thirties. Eat better, too."

I feel so full and, God, I might be sick if I keep eating. But the lasagna is delicious, so what alternative do I have? Plus, I refuse to waste food.

"Please spare me your condescending crap," I speak around a mouthful of cheesy heaven. I knew I was hungry, but I didn't realize how much until the second or third bite. "Too tired to deal with you today."

My words hold little bite, given the fact I'm busy eating his food.

Miles wants to argue, but he knows it's a lost cause.

Glancing out at Boston, he blows out a sigh. The large TV flickers, playing with all the angles of his face, millimetrically drawn with ruler and square.

"We should get to know each other," he says.

I snort, almost choking on the food I haven't finished swallowing.

"I have precisely zero interest in getting to know you." I set the fork down, deciding I'm finished. Maybe.

"Listen, Zoe," he starts.

I miss the mocking endearment. If he's addressing me by my name, I'm in for a tangent. He's barely started, and my eyes are already rolling in their sockets.

"People will have questions. I know you, I know you'll get anxious if you feel unprepared to answer them." He makes a valid point, which I hate even more than I hate his bullshit.

"Fine. I'll put together a file with all the boring stuff. Favorite food, favorite movie, how many stitches I got as a kid and blah-fucking-blah."

"Don't be silly." He summons his dimples for a show. "We're going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, we should get used to being in each other's company. Besides, would it be so bad if we just spend some time together? "

"I mean, there's definitely a chance one of us might die."

"We're all gonna die someday," Miles returns. "Get over it."

On the screen, Nick shrieks dramatically.

I laugh. Then I catch myself.

Miles reaches for the fork—the fork that was in my mouth—and puts a mouthful of lasagna in his mouth, thoroughly cleaning it, licking his lips with an unconscious swipe of his tongue.

"Hey! I wasn't finished." I pout before I know I'm doing it.

His eyes drop to the twist of my lips. "Sorry. Was getting hungry again."

I take the hint to wipe the sauce from the corners of my mouth with a napkin, then snatch the fork back.

"Chandler Bing," I say then.

Miles seems to have the uncanny capacity to read me, like he possesses a panoramic view to my inner musings, so I let him figure out what it means.

"Unsurprising," he drawls, dry but amused.

" Sons of Anarchy ," I shoot again.

Apparently, to him, I am nothing if not predictable.

"Again, unsurprising." He tilts his head, regarding me with a mix of curiosity and concern. "Do you have a thing for blond guys?"

"Only if they come with the baby blues and daddy issues."

Miles chuckles softly, as though it's a good joke. I'm not entirely sure it was a joke at all.

Recognizing the tickling telltale signs of my legs falling asleep under me, I rise clumsily from the floor and snuggle on the couch. My chilly bare feet brush against his forearm. He retreats quickly, getting up and polishing off the remaining lasagna on his way to the kitchen .

I study the waning moon, lonely in the distant sky, cloudy mist blowing by and blurring it. Some part always hidden, the elusive thing.

It's past eleven now. Lights go out below while others stay shining. On his way back, Miles grabs the blanket folded on one of the one seats and drapes it over my legs.

"What about books?" I nuzzle into the fuzzy blanket, wanting to chase that drowsy feeling now that my stomach is satisfied, my feet warm.

I've seen Miles carrying stacks of books on multiple occasions. Many glimpses stolen by the press, too, of Miles Blackstein boarding a plane or walking into a stadium, always with a book cradled against in his hand.

"I read a lot, yeah." He rubs the corner of his lip with a thumb, pondering how much he's willing to share. "My mom's a librarian. I was basically born with a book in my hands. I can't recall a single night I didn't fall asleep to her voices and a story. Sometimes, she would make them up."

My eyelids feel heavy. So, so heavy. With my eyes closed, I still see the soft smile in his voice, the unequivocal unending love for his mother, the nostalgia, the homesickness.

" Alice in Wonderland was my favorite."

Stories of Miles Blackstein's childhood lull me into a weightless sleep where dreams feel like floating and flying and falling into safe arms.

And when I wake up hours later, sun kissing my face and sheets hugging my shoulders, I'm in my bed.