“Glad to know that it’s you putting your dick inside me that will breach rule number three and not this very romantic, very up-close dance we’re doing,” I say when the song changes to a slow, smooth jazz. He pulls me into him, placing his hands on my hips as I rest my head on his shoulder, basically melting into him.
“This,” he says, gesturing between us, still holding onto my hands, “is only whatever you want to call it, Wren.” He continues to sway us, out of beat, to the music.
“That’s not confusing at all,” I murmur, wrapping my arms loosely around his neck. I almost forget that we’re both practically naked, our sweaty skin clinging to each other until my front is flush against his. God, has he always felt and smelt this good? Even after spending all day at the beach. Because right now, I could die in his arms as he holds me like this. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“And you’ve got to be honest with me,” I warn, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Always.”
I take in a deep breath. “Would I sound stupid if I said that I want to stay here forever?”
“I think that’s the best thing you’ve said to me all day, Wren,” he whispers. “You don’t have to follow it up by explaining to me how you mean it in a platonic way or because we’re pretending to date because I get what you mean. In whatever way you meant that, I’m right there with you.”
“Okay, good.”
“Great.”
“Perfect.”
“Do you have any hobbies other than skating?” he asks and I look up at him, testing my chin on his chest. “I know that was a real one-eighty but I’ve been thinking about it and I want to know.”
I nod, resting my head back down on his chest. “I like to read. A lot.”
“And you find that…fun?”
“It’s the best. Getting lost between pages, finding myself within characters and getting so caught up that you forget to look outside for a second. It’s the best type of consuming feeling. Don’t you ever feel like that about something that isn’t hockey?” I ask
“I feel like that about music. I think,” he says. “Maybe not as intensely as you do but I do enjoy listening to music. Sometimes it’s the way certain songs sound and how it makes me feel and other times it’s the words that are so well written. But most of the time it’s both.”
It feels like my heart is expanding. Is that possible? Or is that even a real thing? Because when Miles speaks to me it feels like my heart is about to burst out of my chest because not only is it beating so fast, but because it’s being talked to, cared for and understood so deeply that it just wants to jolt right out.
“That’s why you made that playlist for me that you didn’t really make for me,” I tease, remembering the amount of adorable songs I found on there.
“Exactly,” he concedes through a laugh. “What’s your favourite song?”
I think about it for a second. I change my favourite song the same way I change my outfits. It depends on what mood I’m in or where I am. “Right now, it’s Carry On by Norah Jones..”
He laughs a little, pulling away from me to hold me at arm's length. “You’re going to have to sing it for me because I don’t know it.”
“I already told you, Davis, I can’t sing,” I say, shaking my head.
“If you do one, I’ll do one,” he says, walking over to the karaoke machine. He holds out the microphone to me. “Deal?”
I grab the mic off him. “Fine.”
I stand next to the machine, looking at the tiny screen for the lyrics, mentally preparing myself for embarrassment. It’s only Miles and a few other strangers in here but it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me. Even if there were a hundred people in here, I’d only ever be able to feel him.
He stands across from me, his ankles crossed and his arms folded across his tanned chest, grinning. I start to sing; not my best but it’s something. I even do a little dance between the small interludes of piano and Miles dances along with me, clearly enjoying watching me let loose. It’s so easy to just be with him like this that it worries me. But also knowing that at the end of the day, it’s his bed that I’m going to be crawling into and his arms that are going to wrap around me even when they shouldn’t. Because, here, we’re untouchable. And whatever we do or say is going to be contained into this tiny bubble we’ve built.
When my song’s over, Miles takes the floor, psyching himself for the song he’s chosen. He does a mini warm up, jumping up and down and pretending to crack his neck before the song starts. Immediately, when the song starts, I burst out laughing. Obviously, because Miles is Miles, he chose ‘My Shot,’ from Hamilton the musical.
He can’t fucking sing to save his life, I’ve known that. But he can sort of rap?
I watch as he has the whole room’s eyes on him while he raps every single line of the song. It’s not many but it makes this whole thing feel like a real performance. I’ve never seen him so at home. I never would have pegged him for a theatre kid but from the way he’s clearly memorised these lines, I might have been wrong about him. He keeps his eyes on me the entire time, giving an Oscar-worthy performance, pointing at me at any chance he can get until I’m crying-laughing so hard that I need to sit down.
I don’t know how I didn’t realise it earlier. Maybe weeks ago when he picked me up from that bar and looked after me but I might, actually, have real feelings for this boy. Like, feelings I definitely should have. The kind of feelings that I have not only between my legs but also in my chest. Which is extremely dangerous for so many reasons.
