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Now, I just want her near.

The silence stretches. I close my eyes. Open them again. Her silhouette is faint in the moonlight slipping through the window.

I take a deep breath, my throat dry.

God, this is so simple and so hard at the same time.

“Mia,” I whisper, voice low. “Are you awake?”

There’s a pause. Then a soft, sleepy hum. “Hmm.”

I hesitate. I don’t want to cross a line. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.

But I also don’t want to lie here and keep pretending I don’t need what I need.

“Um… can I hold you?” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be. Honest. Stripped bare. “I swear I won’t be inappropriate. I just want to hold you.”

A beat of silence.

Then, “Okay.”

The sound of her sheets shifting, the gentle rustle as she rolls over and moves closer?—

It hits me harder than I expect.

And then she’s there.

Close.

Her body slides against mine like a puzzle piece falling into place. My arm wraps around her waist, fingers splaying gently across her back. I feel her breath on my chest, and I bury my face in her hair.

She fits.

She fits.

No words. No pressure. Just warmth. Contact. Peace.

The war in my chest stills. And for the first time tonight… I feel like I can finally sleep.

MIA

Iwake up before Jack does.

The sky outside is pale blue, and for a moment, I just lie there, listening to the silence of the penthouse. His breathing is even, steady. He’s asleep beside me, his back turned, one hand curled loosely near his chest like a boy still guarding old wounds.

Nothing happened last night.

Well—except the kiss.

I slip out of bed quietly and pad to the kitchen. My body is still humming with the memory of how it felt to hold him, to feel him break and not try to fix it, just… be there. I shouldn’t care this much. I shouldn’t let myself care this much.

I distract myself with breakfast.

The fridge is cleaner and more organized than I expected. I pull out eggs, tomatoes, bread. Something simple. Grounding. Something that reminds me that I exist outside of whatever Jack Calloway stirs up in me.

I’m making him breakfast because he didn’t have dinner last night. I’m not sure he had anything outside of what he ate with Hayley. I mean, I didn’t, either. But no one told me to go around stalking and trailing him.

I keep moving—whisking, slicing, flipping toast—pretending last night didn’t mean anything. Pretending it didn’t tear through me like a storm.