Page 43 of Worth the Fall

He chuckles, pulling me a little closer. "Not my usual approach, but… I’m not mad about it."

"You’re just saying that because you got the good pillow," I tease, nudging him gently.

"Maybe," he says, grinning. "But honestly, this is perfect."

His words catch me off guard, the sincerity in them making my stomach flip. I let myself relax into his warmth, tucking my head under his chin.

"You’re comfortable," I murmur, almost to myself.

"So are you," he replies, his fingers brushing lightly along my arm.

For a while, we just lie there, the world outside fading away. Everything about this feels effortless—natural, like we’ve been doing it for years instead of weeks.

When I tilt my head up to look at him, his dark eyes are already on me, warm and filled with something I don’t dare name yet. He leans in, his lips brushing mine, and it’s slow at first—a soft, searching kiss. But it doesn’t stay that way for long.

His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer, and I respond instinctively, my fingers threading through his hair. The kiss deepens, all heat and urgency, and when he shifts us, rolling me gently onto my back, I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears.

"Miguel," I murmur against his lips, my breath catching.

"Hmm?" His voice is low, his mouth trailing to the curve of my neck.

I shiver, trying to gather my thoughts. "Shower?"

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his brow arching. "Shower?"

I nod, biting my lip. "Unless you’d rather keep this up and be late getting home."

He chuckles, sitting up and holding out a hand to me. "Alright, Mason. Let’s see if you can keep up."

The shower is an experience all its own—equal parts playful and steamy, filled with laughter, teasing touches, and moments that make my heart race. By the time we’re dressed again—me in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, Miguel back in his slacks and now untucked shirt—we’re both grinning like we’ve gotten away with something.

I pour us each a glass of water in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Miguel watches me. There’s a softness in his expression, something unguarded that makes my chest ache in the best way.

"What?" I ask, handing him the glass.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "I just like this."

"This?"

"You," he says simply, motioning between us. "Looking like this. Comfortable. Happy. Us."

My cheeks flush, and I busy myself with rearranging the fruit bowl on the counter. "You’re dangerously close to sounding like a rom-com."

"Maybe," he replies, taking a sip of water. "But if the shoe fits…"

I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest refuses to dim.

After a moment, he glances at his watch and sighs. "I wish I could stay longer, but Felicity has a dance recital this afternoon. She’d never forgive me if I missed it."

"A dance recital?" I ask, setting my glass down. "What’s she performing?"

"Something princess-themed," he says, chuckling. "She’s been practicing her twirls for weeks. Every flat surface in the apartment has become her stage."

“I’m sure she’s amazing," I say, imagining it.

"She is," he replies, his voice softening. For a moment, something flickers in his expression—something raw and vulnerable—but it’s gone before I can decipher it.

At the door, we kiss again, slow and lingering. When we finally pull back, he rests his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin.

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