I realize I’ve said it aloud when he answers. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this, Daphne. How much I’ve needed you.”

“Miles,” I beg. It feels like more than just my body that’s about to come apart, like my heart is splitting at the seams, and it’s a terrifying, vulnerable feeling to break in front of him in this way, to be so unexpectedly and wholly at his mercy.

His hands come up to cup my face, our bodies keeping pace. “I know,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

So I let go. I break, every last knot coming undone, and he bites down on my shoulder as he shudders into me too.

The waves of sensation roar through me, the sound of our breath rushing into my ears, and light dancing across the back of my eyelids.

The waves draw back, our hearts still thundering, and he slides off of me, pulls me into a curl against his chest as we catch our breath.

I fling an arm over my eyes as a ludicrous wave of laughter overtakes me.

“Daphne?” Miles says, voice hoarse with alarm. “What’s wrong?”

He moves my arm down so he can meet my eyes.

“Nothing,” I get out.

“Then why are you laughing?” he says, dubious.

I hardly understand my own reaction. “Because I’m happy, I guess.”

His smile widens. He leans down to kiss me, a sweet brush of his lips that lingers. I’m smiling too, our teeth lightly clinking. He brushes my sweat-streaked hair away from my forehead.

“You’re amazing,” he says quietly, which makes me laugh again. He casts a sleepy smile sidelong at me. “What’s so funny about that?”

I say, “You just make it sound like I did acrobatics.”

“You might have,” he says. “I blacked out for a few seconds in the middle there.”

I turn my face into his chest, chortling. His hand sweeps down my spine and back up, tucking itself at the base of my neck, beneath my sweaty hair. “I actually did,” he says.

“I think I did too,” I admit.

“Why was it like that?” he says, which makes me laugh more, a heavy, relaxing hum of emotion through my heavy, relaxed limbs.

“I don’t know,” I say.

There’s a long silence, his hand moving lazily over my hair, our breath in sync. Then he asks, “Are you hungry?”

For some reason, this makes my heart feel like it’s about to burst. “Starving.”

I take a quick shower and put on pajamas while Miles starts making banana chocolate chip pancakes. When I’m done, I take over while he rinses off too, then pads back into the room in nothing but a pair of sweatpants and one new hickey I have no memory of giving him.

“Oh my god. I’m sorry,” I say, touching the spot on his collarbone.

“Don’t be.” He takes the spatula from me with one hand and brushes the hair away from my neck with his other. “You’re going to be wearing turtlenecks for weeks.”

He flips the last couple of pancakes onto the waiting plates, and we eat them there, standing up. Then he slides his empty plate away onto the counter and asks, “Do you want to talk about it now?”

“Talk about what,” I say.

“Your dick dad,” he replies.

“Maybe you didn’t notice,” I say, “but that ‘dick’ is essentially universally loved.”

“By strangers,” Miles says. “By people who don’t know him or need anything from him. Excuse me if I don’t find that impressive.”

“Well, you wouldn’t,” I say. “Because everyone instantly loves you too. I’m the one here people don’t want around.”

He shakes his head, frowning. “Do you know how often you do that?”

“Do what?” I ask.

“Act like my opinion doesn’t matter to you,” he says.

My jaw drops. “Of course it matters.”

“Everything I say,” he replies, “it’s like, Oh, of course you’d say that, Miles, you’re just nice. Or, You don’t get it, because you’re you, or, my new favorite, You’re just like my asshole dad.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say. “At all.”

“You said no one wants you around,” he replies. “What about me?”

“What about you?” I say.

“Me wanting you doesn’t count?” he asks, brows knitted together.

A fiery heat wave, a series of them, one after another.

Me wanting you.

Me wanting you.

Me wanting you.

“It counts,” I say. It’s terrifying how much it counts. I set my plate aside. “What about you?”

“Me?” he says.

“I heard your phone call,” I confess.

He’s quiet, thoughtful, for several seconds. “It was my dad.”

I start. “Your dad?”