Footsteps approached fast and heavy, echoing down the pavement until Miles stood directly in front of me.
I would’ve rather dealt with Mrs. Winchester and her endless tulip complaints than this.
I turned to go, but his voice stopped me again—quieter this time, softer.
“Ellie, please. Wait.”
I froze. Exhaled. Then turned slowly, compelled to face him and hear him out. I believed in a fair chance and as much as I wanted to shut him out, that wasn’t who I was.
“What, Miles?”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, and to his credit, the regret in his voice felt real. His brows were furrowed, eyes shadowed with something that almost looked like shame. He looked like a wounded puppy seeking answers. Guilt pinched in my chest.
I shifted my weight, crossing my arms. “Okay.”
“I’ve been trying to catch you,” he continued, “to talk to you face-to-face about what happened. That wasn’t me. It was completely out of character.”
He took a half step forward and then stopped. “I don’t really drink—and that’s why. I lose all my filters when I do.”
“You say that like it’s an excuse,” I replied, voice flat.
Miles winced, then reached out to place his hands gently on my arms, but I stepped back, and he let them fall to his sides.
“It’s not,” he said quickly. “It’s not an excuse. There’s no way to explain how I acted that doesn’t sound awful, but… I got jealous.”
Jealous.
The word hit like a pinprick—and brought with it a flash of Logan leaning against the wall, cowboy hat casting his eyes in shadow, beer bottle to his lips, gaze fixed on me. That attention had set something ablaze inside me—a quiet, slow burn I still felt now just thinking about it.
Miles was still talking.
“I just really like you. A lot,” he said. “And seeing other guys watching you… I panicked. I thought I was going to lose my shot.”
The way he said it—the way he framed it—like I was a thing to be lost, a possession to be claimed.
I got the ick.
Jealousy could be hot—when it came from a place of longing, of quiet wanting. But this? This had felt like control. Like ownership. Like a warning.
Miles shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck like the guilt was a physical weight dragging him down. His gaze darted to mine again, hopeful but cautious.
“Can I just… have one more chance to prove I’m not that guy?” he asked, voice softer now, almost uncertain. “Let me show you that night wasn’t who I really am.”
I looked at him for a long moment. He was waiting for a yes—maybe even expecting one.
“I need to make something clear,” I said, my voice sure despite the swirl in my chest. “What you did? Grabbing me like that? Talking to me the way you did? That’s not okay. Not then. Not ever. I don’t care how jealous or drunk or off your game you were. You don’t get to put your hands on me like that.”
He nodded, eyes wide. “I know. I swear to you, I know.”
“I’m not someone who’s going to shrink herself to make a man comfortable,” I continued. “I won’t apologize for dancing or laughing or being happy, especially not to someone I’m just getting to know.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I was the one out of line. I just…” He trailed off, exhaling like he was trying to force out all the mistakes he’d made. “I like you. That hasn’t changed. And I hate that the first time I got to be around the people who matter to you, I messed it up.”
I didn’t respond right away. The silence stretched between us, thick with tension.
Finally, he spoke again, a small smile creeping onto his face, boyish and hopeful. “Come over tonight,” he said. “Let me cook for you. No pressure. Just… a meal. One I promise you’ll never forget.”
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You think food can fix this?”