Page 42 of Worth the Fall

At some point, her laughter softens, and she leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. The shift is so natural, so unintentional, that it makes my chest tighten. I pull the blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over both of us, letting myarm settle around her shoulders. She fits against me perfectly, like she was always meant to be there.

Her fingers are still loosely wrapped around mine, her thumb brushing my knuckles absentmindedly. The movie we picked is playing in the background, but neither of us is paying attention anymore. It’s just us, cocooned in this small bubble of warmth and quiet.

"You know," she murmurs, her voice low and soft, "I haven’t done this in a long time."

"What’s that?" I ask, my voice just as quiet.

"Let myself feel this comfortable with someone." She tilts her head up, her eyes meeting mine. There’s vulnerability there, raw and unguarded, and it hits me like a punch to the gut. "You make it easy," she adds, her lips curving into the faintest smile.

I don’t know what to say to that. My throat feels tight, and all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss her again. Instead, I press my lips to her forehead, lingering there for a moment.

"You’re not the only one," I say finally, the words coming out rougher than I intended.

Her smile deepens, and she nestles closer, her body relaxing against mine. For a long while, we just sit there, the only sounds the faint hum of the TV and the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Her hand slips from mine, her fingers curling lightly against my chest. I feel the weight of her trust, her warmth, and it’s enough to undo me.

"Mia?" I whisper after a while, glancing down.

She doesn’t answer. She’s fallen asleep, her breaths slow and even, her face soft and unguarded. Her lashes rest against her cheeks, and there’s a faint smile still lingering on her lips.

I don’t move. I can’t. It feels like one wrong shift might shatter the moment. Instead, I let my head rest against hers, the scent of her hair—something floral and sweet—filling my senses.

The couch isn’t exactly built for two people, but I don’t care. The small ache in my back is worth it for this—for holding her, for being this close.

I glance around her apartment, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows on the walls. There are little pieces of her everywhere—books stacked haphazardly on the shelf, a mug with a chip in the handle sitting on the coffee table, a cozy blanket draped over the arm of a chair. It’s lived-in, warm, and so very Mia.

My eyes drift back to her, and something settles in my chest. It’s not the dizzying rush I felt when I kissed her in the rain or the heat that flared when she pulled me against her in the alley. This is different. This is quiet, steady, the kind of feeling that roots itself deep and refuses to let go.

I brush a strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering for a moment. "You’re incredible," I whisper, knowing she can’t hear me.

She shifts slightly, her arm tightening around me as if in response. I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head.

Eventually, my own eyes grow heavy, and I stop fighting it. The sound of her breathing lulls me, each rise and fall of her chest against mine anchoring me in the moment.

For the first time in a long time, I feel completely at ease. No worries about work, no lingering doubts about the past—just this. Just her.

CHAPTER 9

Mia

Iwake slowly, the soft sound of steady breathing pulling me from sleep. For a moment, I’m disoriented, my brain struggling to place the weight of the arm draped over my waist. But then I see him—Miguel, lying beside me, his face relaxed, his dark lashes resting against his cheekbones.

My bed feels smaller with him in it, but somehow cozier, too. He’s still fully dressed, his shirt untucked, his sleeves rolled up, and his shoes missing. His hair is an artful mess, the kind that would take effort to recreate, and there’s a faint crease on his cheek from the throw pillow we dragged from the couch.

I glance down at myself, still in my dress from last night, though the fabric is now hopelessly wrinkled. My bare legs are tangled in the blanket we must have brought with us.

I smile, memories of last night washing over me: the rain, the food truck, Saul’s protective speech, and the quiet moments on the couch. We must’ve been too comfortable—or too tired—to care about changing or even properly getting under the covers.

Miguel stirs, his arm tightening around my waist. He blinks his eyes open, looking at me with a sleepy, lopsided smile that makes my chest feel light.

"Morning," he murmurs, his voice low and rough from sleep.

"Morning," I reply, biting my lip to hold back a ridiculous grin.

His gaze flicks down to his wrinkled shirt and my rumpled dress, and his brow arches in amusement. "So, we made it to the bed but didn’t bother with anything else? That’s a first."

I laugh, brushing a hand through my hair, which I’m sure is a disaster. "I guess we’re trendsetters now."

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