Page 133 of The Kiss of Deception

And he understands. He understands deeper than my words, all the things I say and all the things I don't—can't.

Miles just gets me.

“Enough?” He shakes his head violently, like my words both enrage and sadden him. “Zoe you could never be just enough. You’re everything. Every-fucking-thing.” Each word is thoroughly enunciated. “And I will fucking fight anyone who tries to convince you otherwise—even if it’s this dark mind of yours.”

This time, he doesn’t give me a chance to retreat—not that I could, even if I wanted to. He prowls forward, invading my space and all my senses all at once.

“Don’t ever run away from me again, Zoe.” He’s so close his chest punches against mine with every breath. “Please.”

I don’t hesitate. “Okay. But if I do, you will chase me, and you will catch me. Promise?” In the barely there space between us, I hold my pinkie for him like he always does when it comes to promises.

“Always.”

He hooks his pinkie-finger on mine without looking away from my face and tugs me impossibly closer to him.

“Fuck, Zoe.” Our foreheads mash together. “I’m so mad at you.”

“Okay.” I prop myself on my tiptoes, winding my arms around his middle. “I suggest you try multitasking. Stay mad while you kiss me.”

His hand wraps around my ponytail and he pulls roughly, tilting my eyes to his. “Uh-huh.”

“What?”

“You need to see Toby.”

Much to my dismay, Miles is right.

As much as I’d tried to pretend everything was fine these past hours and focus on the things within my power—rather than obsessing over things I can’t control—the truth is, Grandpa is fighting for his life. And he needs me as much as I need to be with him.

“I feel obligated to tell you how much I resent your soundness of mind at this moment.” I sigh. “Just a little one?”

After a few long seconds in which only his eyes move, bouncing between mine, he pulls the strings of my—his—hoodie and presses his lips on mine.

Together we inhale deeply, bathing in the peace and certainty that our forever will be made of moments like these—of love and choice and fight.

A last, soft kiss on my temple before he winds his arm around my shoulder, and we retrace our steps through the creaky door.

“Don’t think you won’t tell me every little detail about that ugly hand,” I warn, entwining mine in his.

“Yes, love.”

“Don’t love me.”

Miles throws me a dimpled smile. “Yes, love.”

I squeeze his purple fingers and he whimpers.

“Yes, lov—Zoe!”

With every step that shortens the distance, my heartbeat accelerates, afraid of what I’ll find in that hospital room.

I find nothing that I could have anticipated.

With a surgical mask and all the years gone by, I almost don’t recognize him. As a matter of fact, I don’t—not until he says softly, “Hi, little bee.”

The voice sounds uncannily it like always did, but it doesn’t register as much as the endearment.

“What are you doing here?”

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