Page 165 of Just One Little Bargain

“I’m not begging you for popcorn.”

“I didn’t say beg.” His thumb draws a slow line along the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up. “I said, ask nicely.”

His thumb keeps tracing the bare strip of skin at my waist. I’m halfway in his lap now, one knee beside his hip, the other foot still tucked under me, and he’s looking at me like he’s perfectly content to keep me exactly where I am.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Immensely.” His voice drops lower. “You’re welcome to stay right here.”

I lean in, close enough that our mouths are almost touching, and pluck a piece of popcorn from the bowl he’s still extending to the side. I settle my full weight into his lap and feel the thick press of him against me. His hand tightens on my hip, keeping me there.

“Comfortable?”

“Extremely.” Milo’s pupils have blown wide.

For a while, I stay tucked against him beneath the blanket while his fingers work over my scalp, easing through the tension gathered there. Every so often, he dips into the bowl and holds a piece of popcorn to my lips.

On screen, the music swells toward catastrophe, and the ship starts its slow, inevitable tilt into the ocean.

“Wait.” He points at the screen as Jack and Rose cling to the floating debris. “There’s room.”

I sniffle. “That’s not the point.”

“Look at the size of the door versus the man.” His voice climbs an octave. “He’d obviously fit. They could’ve taken turns or shared the space. This was entirely preventable.”

“It’s about sacrifice.”

“It’s poor spatial reasoning!” Milo’s gesturing at the TV now. “I refuse to believe two reasonably intelligent people couldn’t problem-solve a floating door in a crisis. He didn’t have to freeze to death. She could’ve moved over!”

I’m crying and laughing at the same time as I grab the nearest throw pillow and smack him with it. “You’re missing the entire point.”

“The point is buoyancy, and he had access to it.”

“He loved her!” I wipe the tears with the back of my hand. “Some things aren’t about being efficient or logical. They’re just about loving someone enough to let them survive, even if you don’t.”

Milo stops gesturing. The flickering light from the TV casts shadows over his face.

“No. I suppose they aren’t.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up.

“Thank you for tonight,” I whisper over the movie’s swelling score.

I could kiss him again, bury the question, and preserve the peace we’ve found. But I’ve spent all day trying to lock that word away, and it’s only grown larger. Soulmates belong in novels and old stories, where destiny arrives comprehensible and nobody has to ask how any of it works.

“What does it mean?”

Milo’s brow furrows. “What?”

“The soulmate thing.” Even now, the words sound absurd in my mouth. “What does it actually mean?”

“We don’t have to discuss it.” The hand at my hip stops moving. “We agreed we could forget I said anything.”

“I can’t,” I admit. “It turns out I’m very bad at forgetting information that rearranges my entire understanding of reality.”

“That does sound inconvenient.”

“It’s infuriating.” My fingers tighten in his shirt. “I want to understand it.”