I wake up warm, like someone is holding me tight.
For a second, I'm not in Brooklyn. I'm back in San Ángel, wrapped in my old blanket with the ocean humming outside my window and my sister snoring in the next bed. My eyes stay closed as I breathe in—salt, sun, laundry soap—home.
Then I smell him.
Cologne and soap and the faintest hint of whatever he used to clean his busted knuckles. Miles.
I blink my eyes open.
His arm is draped around my waist, heavy and sure, like it belongs there. We're tangled up in my sheets, the pale morning light creeping through the edges of my curtains. His chest rises and falls against my back, slow and steady, like he doesn't have a single regret in the world.
Must be nice.
For a minute I just lie there and let myself exist in the softness. No Dan. No Makayla. No new school. No mom who always seems two steps ahead of me, dragging my life behind her in a suitcase. Just this bed, this boy, this impossible little bubble we made for ourselves in a city that still doesn't feel like it wants me.
"Stop thinking so loud," Miles mumbles into my hair.
I freeze. "I'm not thinking loud."
He shifts a little closer, tightening his arm around me. "You are. Your whole body got tense. It's like a siren. 'Alert: Jayla is overanalyzing again.'"
I roll my eyes even though he can't see it. "Maybe I just don't like being trapped."
"Trapped?" he repeats, fake offended. His hand flexes on my waist but doesn't move. "You literally fell asleep on top of me like a weighted blanket last night."
Heat creeps up my neck. Little flashes from last night flicker through my mind—the coat closet, the kisses, the way we didn't quite cross that final line but definitely burned every inch of the map leading up to it.
"Details," I mutter.
He goes quiet for a second, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
"You good?" he asks softly.
There it is again. That question. The one that should annoy me but somehow doesn't.
"I don't know yet," I admit.
He doesn't let go. "Okay. We can sit here until you do."
Something in my chest squeezes. The old version of me—the one who tried to keep every feeling locked away—would've cracked a joke and rolled out of his arms by now. But new me, the one who gave a speech on a beach and kissed him in front of half our school, just sighs instead.
"Turn around," he says quietly.
I twist in his hold until I'm facing him. His curls are a mess, flattened on one side, and there's a crease from my pillow pressed into his cheek. His eyes are half‑open, sleepy but focused on me like I'm the only thing in the room that matters.
It's kind of unfair, how pretty he is in the morning.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self‑conscious.
He studies my face for a moment, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "You're not panicking as much as I thought you'd be," he says.
"Wow. Rude."
His mouth twitches. "I just mean… last night was a lot. Even if we didn't—" He cuts himself off, clears his throat. "I expected you to wake up and start yelling at me. Or pretending this didn't happen."
"That's still an option," I say, but there's no heat behind it.
He raises a brow. "Is it what you want?"
I hate that he asks me that. I hate that he always makes me choose instead of just deciding for me like everyone else.
"No," I admit, voice small.
He exhales, relief softening his whole face. "Good. Because I really don't feel like getting broken up with before we've even had breakfast."
My heart stutters. "Who said we're together?"
He looks genuinely confused. "You didn't?"
I blink. "Miles."
"Jayla." He mirrors my tone, blinking back at me.
"We kissed—okay, we kissed a lot," I say, my cheeks heating. "You slept here. That doesn't automatically make you my boyfriend. That's not how this works."
He props himself up on one elbow, staring down at me. "Then how does it work?"
I open my mouth, then close it. I don't actually know. With Dan, it was easy. He'd asked over text in the most basic way possible—"So are we a thing or what?"—and I'd said yes because it was simple and safe and made sense.
Nothing about Miles feels safe or simple.
"I don't want titles yet," I say finally. "I just got here. I just lost my best friend and my boyfriend in the messiest way possible. I don't even know where my science class is. I can't… I don't want to slap a label on us just so it can be another thing people rip away."
He's quiet for a second. My stomach drops.
"Okay," he says.
I blink. "Okay?"
"Okay," he repeats. "No labels. Not until you want one."
I search his face. "You're not mad?"
He shrugs, lying back down so we're face to face on the pillow. "A little disappointed in my 'boyfriend' debut, but I'll live."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
"But," he adds, his gaze locking with mine, "just because I'm not calling myself your boyfriend yet doesn't mean I'm acting like anything less. I'm not gonna be some secret. And I'm definitely not gonna stand by while your ex and his little traitor keep talking about you like you're the villain of their story."
Anger sparks low in my chest at the mention of Dan and Makayla. The videos. The comments. The way my name has been in everyone's group chats since I left.
"You saw something?" I ask.
He hesitates. "Seraph sent me some screenshots last night, but I didn't want to show you. Not yet. You already had enough to deal with."
I press my lips together. Part of me appreciates it. Another part bristles at the idea of everyone seeing my life fall apart before I do.
"What did they say?" I whisper.
He studies me for a second. "You sure you want to know now?"
"No," I say honestly. "But tell me anyway."
He sighs, raking a hand through his curls. "They're spinning it like you cheated on him first. That you left because you 'couldn't handle real commitment.' Makayla posted some cryptic crap about 'some girls don't deserve loyalty' with a selfie. People are eating it up."
My throat burns. Of course she did.
"I didn't even do anything," I mutter, staring at the ceiling. "I moved because my mom decided my whole life belonged in somebody else's mansion. I didn't ask to meet you. I didn't ask for any of this."
"I know," he says quietly.
"It's like they're writing a story about me and handing it out to everyone," I go on, the words tumbling out faster now. "And I'm just… stuck here, trying to catch up while they turn me into the villain. Again."
He reaches for my hand under the blanket, his fingers warm and rough against mine.
"Then write it back," he says simply.
I look at him, annoyed and weirdly hopeful. "What, like a Notes app apology?"
He snorts. "No. God, no. You've got more style than that. I mean stop letting them be the ones who tell your story. You wanna post? Post. You wanna block them and pretend they died in a tragic 'fell into the ocean of irrelevance' accident? Do it. You wanna walk into that school holding my hand and make it really clear you upgraded? I'm ready."
I roll my eyes, but I can't hide the small smile tugging at my lips. "Upgraded, huh?"
He smirks. "Obviously."
Silence stretches between us, but it's a soft kind. I can almost hear the ocean in it.
"School," I say eventually, the word heavy in my mouth. "That's today."
He winces. "Yeah. Welcome to your official first day as Brooklyn's most talked‑about transfer student."
"Ew, don't say that," I groan, burying my face in the pillow.
He laughs and tugs the pillow down so he can see me again. "Hey. Look at me."
I do.
"You survived moving across a whole ocean," he says. "You survived watching your old life get packed in boxes and driven away. You stood up to Makayla in front of everyone. You threw the best beach party this side of Coney Island. You really think you can't handle some teenagers with cheap lip gloss and too much Wi‑Fi?"
Despite everything, my chest warms.
"You're very dramatic in the mornings," I tell him.
He grins. "You like it."
"Maybe."
He glances at my alarm clock. "You're gonna be late if you keep staring at me."
"I'm not staring," I lie.
He raises both brows.
"Fine," I mutter, shoving at his shoulder. "Get out of my bed, underground fighter. I have to pretend I'm a functional senior now."
He rolls away dramatically, flopping onto his back. "Wow. Kicked out of paradise."
"Go brush your teeth," I shoot back, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold under my feet, reality seeping back in.
As I stand and stretch, I feel his eyes on me.
"What?" I ask without turning around.
"Nothing," he says. "Just… proud of you, that's all."
My heart stutters.
"For what?"
"For staying," he answers. "For not pretending last night didn't happen. For not running."
I swallow hard, then head to the bathroom before he can see whatever's written all over my face.
By the time I'm dressed—dark‑wash jeans, a fitted white tank, my favorite oversized denim jacket, hoops, and my 'I might punch you but politely' lip gloss—Miles is nowhere in my room. For a second, panic prickles my skin.
Did he leave?
I walk downstairs, my backpack slung over one shoulder. Voices drift from the kitchen—low, unexpected.
"—I said no more fighting this month," my stepdad is saying. His voice carries that smooth, business‑man calm that always makes me feel like a child.
"I already told Nate I was out," Miles replies. "It's handled."
I pause in the doorway.
My mom sits at the counter in her robe, coffee in hand, eyebrows arched. "Since when do you listen that fast?" she asks Miles, suspicion lacing her tone.
Miles leans against the island, arms crossed. His hair is tamed now, curls pushed back, T‑shirt swapped for a black hoodie. He looks… softer, somehow.
"Since I have something to lose if I come home with my face rearranged," he says casually.
My mom follows his gaze over his shoulder—to me.
Her eyes widen just a fraction. Then she smiles, slow and knowing.
"Buenos días, mi amor," she says. "You slept well?"
I force my legs to move into the room. "Morning," I reply, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. "Yeah. Fine."
She looks between Miles and me, taking in the way we're very obviously not looking at each other.
"Hmm," she hums, sipping her coffee. "Interesting."
My stepdad clears his throat. "We were just talking about security," he says, shifting the topic. "Jayla, there's been some… noise online since you left San Ángel. If anyone bothers you at school, you tell us. Or you tell Miles. That's an order, understood?"
I blink. "You saw it too?"
He nods once. "People talk. I have people who listen."
Of course he does.
My stomach twists, but before I can respond, Miles nudges a mug toward me—a hot chocolate, perfectly made, marshmallows in the shape of tiny hearts floating on top.
"I made you this," he says. "For your first day. Yoga was phase one. Sugar is phase two."
My mom's mouth curls at the corner.
I glance at him. "Thanks," I say quietly, fingers wrapping around the warmth of the mug.
He gives me that small, private smile I'm starting to crave.
"Jayla," my mom says suddenly, her tone gentler than I expect. "You know you can start over here, right? Lo que pasó allá… it doesn't have to follow you unless you let it."
I look at her, really look this time. The tired lines around her eyes. The way her hand squeezes my stepdad's wrist like she's still scared this happiness could vanish.
"I know," I say.
She studies my face like she's trying to figure out what changed.
"New city, new school," she says. "But same corazón. Don't let anyone make you feel ashamed of that."
My throat tightens. "Okay, Mami."
My stepdad checks his watch. "Car's out front," he says. "Miles is driving you."
"Of course he is," I mutter.
Miles bumps my shoulder lightly as we head for the door. "Relax, ocean girl," he says under his breath. "Worst case, we skip school and hit the beach."
I snort. "You wish."
He opens the front door for me, bowing dramatically. "After you, princesa."
The Brooklyn air hits my face—cooler than San Ángel, sharper somehow. Cars glide past the mansion gates, people moving fast, lives already in motion.
I take a deep breath.
Today, the whole school will probably know about me. About Dan. About Makayla. About the party, the bonfire speech, maybe even about Miles.
They'll think they know my story.
But as I slide into the passenger seat of the red Lamborghini and feel Miles's eyes flick over to me like a quiet question—You ready?—for the first time, I don't feel like background noise in my own life.
I feel like the main character.
I look straight ahead, at the city waiting to chew me up.
"Let's go," I say, fastening my seatbelt.
Miles smirks, starting the engine. "Brooklyn better be ready for you."
As we pull away from the house, the ocean inside me doesn't feel so far anymore. It feels closer, pulsing under my skin, a reminder that no matter what anyone says—online, at school, in whispers behind my back—I am still that girl who belongs to the water and to herself.
And this time, I'm the one writing the waves.