Page 194 of Silent Shadows

And I have never been more comfortable in my life.

His arm tightens around me in his sleep like a reflex. Possessive in that quiet, unconscious way that couldn’t be less performative. His hand spreads over my back, fingers flexing once, like some part of him felt me drifting too far away and decided absolutely not.

My throat tightens and my eyes prick. I breathe him in to keep myself from crying, because I am evolved. Barely.

He smells like sleep and the cedar soap he pretends he doesn’t buy in bulk. He also still smells like me.

Last night. Heat creeps up my neck. I press my smile into his shirt. There are worse places to wake up than tucked against a man who fucks like he’s making up for lost years. A soft sound rumbles in his chest.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep.

I tilt my head back. His eyes are still closed. Glasses absent. Hair crushed against the pillow. One side of his face creased from sleep. The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

“You awake?” I whisper.

“No.”

“You just contradicted yourself.”

“Residual consciousness.”

“Impressive.”

His mouth curves faintly. His hand slides up my spine, warm and slow, then settles between my shoulder blades.

His eyes open then. Sleepy. Dark brown in the dim light.

He studies me like he’s checking to see if I’m real.

“Miles. If you’re worried I’m leaving again, I’m not.”

Then he nods once and pulls me closer.

My face ends up tucked under his chin.

I should make a joke. Something about his tiny coffin bunk. Something about spinal trauma. Something about how this whole situation has the energy of a wilderness hostage negotiation.

Instead, I let myself stay quiet. That still surprises me.

Before Miles, silence always felt like something that needed fixing. A gap to fill before someone decided I wasn't interesting enough. So I'd jump in. Make it funny. Make it sexy. Change the subject. Perform. Whatever it took to keep the air moving.

Somewhere between campfires and long drives and sitting across from Miles while neither of us said a word, silence stopped feeling like failure.

Out here, silence has texture. It has morning air and soft breath and a man’s thumb moving absentmindedly over the back of my shirt.

It has space.

I lie there and listen to it.

A couple of months ago, my life fit inside a very different shape.

Recording booth. Studio notes. Launch calendars. Sponsor reads for lube and dating apps and lingerie companies with names that sounded like extinct flowers. Dinner reservations at places with lighting designed to highlight cheekbones. Friends who asked if I was okay, but really meant, Did the audience like you this week?

I knew how to be that woman. The laugh. The hair. The witty responses. The woman who could talk about sex for forty-seven minutes and still reveal almost nothing worth hurting over.

She built a good life. A glossy one. Expensive sheets. Strong drinks. Perfect lighting. A career made out of saying intimate things in a voice that kept everyone at the exact right distance.

Then I climbed into an RV with a bunch of cryptid weirdos and ruined everything.