I got on top of him, feeling his breath catch a little tighter beneath me. We kiss, and it deepens, slow and urgent all at once, like we're both afraid of what happens if we stop. My fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging it up as his hands settle at my waist.
This time, I am in control.
I lean in until my lips brush his ear. "Only if you still want this," I whisper.
He goes very still. For a heartbeat, the only sounds are our breathing and the faint hum of the city outside the window. Then his hands tighten on my hips, not pulling me closer, not pushing me away—just holding.
"Jayla," he says, my name rough in his throat, "I've wanted you since the day you rolled your eyes at me in that ugly green jersey."
I let out a shaky laugh. "It was not ugly."
"It was," he insists, a small smile curving his lips. "But you weren't."
I roll my eyes, but my chest aches in the best way. "So… we're really doing this?" I ask, the joke draining from my voice.
He searches my face, all the playfulness fading. "Only if you're sure. And only if you're not doing it because you're hurt or mad at the world. I'm not your rebound, princesa. Not from Dan, not from anybody."
The room seems to shrink around us, everything narrowing to the way he's looking at me—like my answer actually matters.
"I'm not drunk," I say quietly. "I'm not sad. I'm just… here. With you. And I want you. That's it."
He exhales slowly, like he's been holding his breath for days. "Then, yeah," he murmurs. "We're doing this. But we go slow. And we stop the second you say so. Deal?"
My throat tightens. Nobody's ever said it to me that plainly before.
"Deal," I whisper.
I kiss him again, and this time it feels different—not like I'm trying to forget anything, but like I'm finally choosing something for myself.
The details of the night blur, softened at the edges. There's his laughter against my neck, the warmth of his hands tracing slow patterns on my back, the way he keeps checking in with me—"You good?"—until I'm half‑annoyed and half in love with him for asking. At some point, the city outside fades to a low murmur. The ocean in my chest calms, waves smoothing out as I let myself stop thinking and just feel.
And then there's quiet.
Later, when the room has gone dark except for the strip of moonlight cutting across the floor, I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, the sheets twisted around us like evidence. Miles is beside me, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting somewhere near my hip as if he doesn't quite know whether he's allowed to hold me yet.
"Are you freaking out?" I ask into the silence.
"A little," he admits. "You?"
"A lot."
We both laugh, too soft and tired for it to be anything but real.
He shifts onto his side to look at me. His curls are a mess, his mouth a little swollen, eyes softer than I've ever seen them. "Talk to me, Jayla. What's going on in there?" he asks, tapping lightly against my forehead.
I swallow. "I keep thinking about my mom," I say. "About how she just… left everything when she met your boss. Packed up our whole life for a man. I swore I'd never do that. Never let a boy be the reason I lost myself."
He flinches, just a little, like the words sting. "You think that's what this is?"
I turn my head to face him. "No," I say honestly. "That's the scary part. I don't feel like I lost anything tonight. I feel like I… chose something. Chose you. And chose me. At the same time."
"Okay," he says, nodding slowly. "So where's the freaking‑out part?"
I huff out a breath. "What if I wake up tomorrow and regret it? What if this was stupid? What if my mom finds out and kills me and I never graduate and—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." He scoots closer, cutting off my spiral. "First of all, if your mom kills you, I'm dying too because she actually likes me, and that woman's aim is terrifying."
I snort, a laugh bursting out of me despite everything.
"Second," he continues, lowering his voice, "you're allowed to change your mind tomorrow. Or the next day. Or ten years from now. That doesn't make tonight stupid. It just makes you human."
I stare at him, my chest aching again. "Why are you being so… good?"
He shrugs one shoulder, suddenly shy. "Because you deserve 'good' for once. And because I told you yesterday I wanted to be less of a disaster with you. I meant it."
His fingers find mine under the sheets, lacing them together. My heart does that annoying flip.
"What happens now?" I ask.
He squeezes my hand. "Now?" He considers. "Now we sleep. Tomorrow, we eat pancakes and pretend to be normal people. And then we figure it out. Together. No disappearing, no ghosting, no 'it just happened' bullshit. We talk like actual grown humans. Cool?"
I let out a slow breath I didn't know I was holding. "Cool," I echo.
He leans over and kisses my forehead, a soft brush that makes my eyes sting for no good reason.
"Goodnight, ocean girl," he murmurs.
"Goodnight, underground fighter," I mumble back.
When I finally close my eyes, I'm not thinking about Dan or Makayla or San Angel or even the ocean I left behind. I'm thinking about the steady weight of Miles's hand in mine, the shape of this new beginning settling gently over us.
For the first time in a long time, the future doesn't feel like something happening to me.
It feels like something I might actually be writing