Page 107 of Falling

“Glad to know it’s grandpa names that get you going,” he starts, spinning me out and then pulling me back into him. We’re not even dancing properly to the fast-paced music that is playing but I’m having too much fun to care. “And not my amazing looks.”

“You’re so full of yourself. You know that?” I say, laughing as he makes me spin again.

“You could be full of me too if you're nicer to me,” he retorts, and I gag. “I’m kidding. The rules and all that.”

“Glad to know that it’s you putting your dick inside me that will breach rule number three and not this very romantic, very up-close dance we’re doing,” I say when the song changes to slow, smooth jazz. He pulls me into him, and I rest my head on his chest as he holds my hand and I wrap my other hand around his back.

“This,” he says, gesturing between us, “is only whatever you want to call it, Wren.” He continues to sway us, out of beat to the music.

“That’s not confusing at all,” I murmur, wrapping my arms loosely around his neck. I almost forget that we’re both practically naked, our sweaty skin clinging to each other until my front is flush against his. God, has he always felt and smelt this good? He’s almost too perfect that it hurts. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“And you’ve got to be honest with me,” I warn, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Always.”

I take in a deep breath. “Would I sound stupid if I said that I want to stay here, in this little bubble, forever?”

“I think that’s the best thing you’ve said to me all day, Wren,” he whispers. “You don’t have to follow it up by explaining to me how you mean it in a platonic way or because we’re pretending to date because I get what you mean. In whatever way you meant that, I’m right there with you.”

“Okay, good.”

“Great.”

“Perfect.”

“Do you have any hobbies other than skating?” he asks, and I look up at him, resting my chin on his chest. “I know that was a real one-eighty, but I’ve been thinking about it, and I want to know.”

I nod, resting my head back down on his chest. “I like to read, obviously. A lot. And I write sometimes.”

“And you find that fun?”

“It’s the best. Getting lost between pages, finding myself within characters, and getting so caught up that I forget to look outside for a second. It’s the best type of consuming feeling. Don’t you ever feel like that about something that isn’t hockey?” I ask

“I feel like that about music. I think,” he says. “Maybe not as intensely as you do, but I do enjoy listening to music. Sometimes, it’s the way certain songs sound and how they make me feel, and other times, it’s the words that are so well written. But most of the time, it’s both.”

It feels like my heart is expanding. Is that possible? Or is that even a real thing? Because when Miles speaks to me, it feels like my heart is about to burst out of my chest, not only because it is beating so fast, but because it’s being talkedto, cared for, and understood so deeply that it just wants to jolt right out.

“That’s why you made that playlist for me that you didn’t really make for me,” I tease.

“Exactly,” he says through a laugh. “What’s your favorite song?”

I think about it for a second. I change my favorite song the same way I change my outfits. It depends on what mood I’m in or where I am. “Right now, it’sCarry Onby Norah Jones.”

He laughs a little, pulling away from me to hold me at arm's length. “You’re going to have to sing it for me because I don’t know it.”

“I already told you, Davis, I can’t sing,” I say, shaking my head.

“If you do one, I’ll do one,” he says, walking over to the karaoke machine. He holds out the microphone to me. “Deal?”

I grab the mic off him. “Fine.”

I stand next to the machine, looking at the tiny screen for the lyrics, mentally preparing myself for embarrassment. It’s only Miles and a few other strangers in here, but it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me. In some weird way, the strangers don’t matter because I can only see him.

He stands across from me, his ankles crossed and his arms folded across his tanned chest, grinning. I start to sing. It’s not my best, but it’s something. It's a pretty slow song, but it's one of my favorites. I even do a little dance between the small interludes of piano, and Miles dances along with me, clearly enjoying himself.

It’s so easy to just be with him like this. At the end of the day, it’s his bed that I’m going to be crawling into and his arms that are going to wrap around me throughout the night. Because, here, we’re untouchable. And whatever we do or say is going to be contained into this tiny bubble we’ve built, and that makes this less terrifying.

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