Even in her comfy clothes, just a plain white v-neck and gray drawstring sweatpants, she’s effortlessly gorgeous. I’ve never met anyone who looks as good as she does without trying.
Now she’s closer than she’s ever been—so close that I can see the little bit of mascara smeared under one eye, the little shimmer of moisture above her lip, and the calm certainty of her expression. She isn’t asking anything of me. She’s just here.
“Would you… I mean, if you want to…” I swallow, suddenly unsure. “Would you mind just sitting here with me?”
There’s no hesitation. “Of course.”
Mia stands, and something in me tenses—irrational, fleeting, a quiet panic that she might actually leave. But she doesn’t. She walks over to the wall where my records are lined up in perfect rows, and skims the titles like she’s done it a hundred times before. She pulls out808s & Heartbreak, raises an eyebrow at me like she knows exactly what she’s doing, and swaps the record without a word.
When she climbs back into the bed, the panic dissipates and the calm returns. She settles back into the space beside me, close enough that our shoulders just barely brush, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her radiating against my skin. Her presence fills the room with something weightless and grounding all at once.
We don’t talk. Don’t need to. The low pulse of the music wraps around us like a blanket, filling the silence that neither of us seems eager to break. I just listen to the sound of her breathing, the steady rhythm syncing with the beat of the song quieting something inside me that I hadn’t realized was there.
This is something I could never do with Lily.
She never sat still. Never stopped talking. Always needed a reaction or a response. There was no time to just stop, or think, or breathe.
But Mia… Mia is different in almost every way.
She doesn’t need an explanation. Doesn’t push for answers I’m not ready to give. She just exists beside me—patient, unwavering, and present. Like she understands that her presence alone is enough. Like she’s known it all along.
Her thigh brushes against mine. I don’t move.
I like the way she feels.
For a moment, I let myself forget about everything that makes her complicated. The timing. The history. The fact that I have no business wanting her so badly.
Because right now, she belongs in this bed. Right here with me. I don’t want to fight that anymore.
It feels like something I could do every day for the rest of my life.
Maybe—just maybe—she feels it, too.
Chapter seven
"Street Lights" - Kanye West
Mia
Being in Grayson’s bedroom is… weird.
Surely there’s a better word for how I feel about being alone with Grayson in his bedroom, but right now, weird is the best I have.
I don't know what I expected his room to look like, but it isn’t this.
The walls that aren’t covered with bookshelves or records are painted navy blue. The strangest thing is that this room certainly doesn’t look like a room that a husband and wife would share. This room is all Grayson, and the whole room smells like his cologne. Normally, I hate when cologne smell is overpowering, but this smells like…home.
Grayson also has a framed poster of his dad on a wall with a few posters of his other favorite bands.
I very clearly remember the day that my mom told me that Grayson and Johanna’s dad overdosed when Grayson was thirteen and Johanna and I were nine.
I remember watching the medical team roll the covered gurney out of their house and into the black coroner’s van.
At the time, I had been too young to know what was involved or what those words meant, but now, lying here, looking at a poster of Grayson’s dead father, I understand it all.
It had been so hard on them, especially Grayson, because from that point forward he was left to feel like there was no one in his family that understood him. Jonah Harris, no matter how troubled he’d been, had been Grayson’s lifeline to music. It’s endearing to see how he’s kept Jonah’s memory alive.
I probably would’ve enjoyed this moment a hell of a lot more if my mind didn’t keep drifting off and thinking of Lily Vance.
