By the Book

Chapter Twenty-Five: Breaking the Walls

I woke up with a start, my mouth drier than the Sahara and my head pounding like I'd been headbutted by a linebacker. The unfamiliar room around me was a blur of muted sunlight, warm tones, and subtle masculinity—neat bookshelves, a framed photo of a lake, and the faintest scent of coffee in the air. Definitely not my apartment.

Panic bubbled up as I pieced together the previous night. The drinks. The dancing. The oversharing. Miles driving me home—except, clearly, this wasn't my home. My stomach sank. Oh, no.

Sitting up was an Olympic-level challenge, but I managed to do it without falling over. My jacket and boots were gone, neatly set by the bed, but I was still wearing the rest of my outfit from last night. At least there was that. On the nightstand, a glass of water, aspirin, and a neatly folded pile of black sweatpants, a sweater, and socks caught my attention. A note was perched on top, written in Miles's annoyingly perfect handwriting:

Take these. Coffee's brewing downstairs if you're feeling brave.
-M

The clothes were clearly his, but they were clean and smelled faintly of detergent. I groaned into my hands. Of course, he's thoughtful on top of everything else.

After swallowing the aspirin and slipping into the oversized sweatpants and sweater—it wasn't like I could wander out in my skort—I stretched carefully, trying to ease the tension in my neck. A glance around the room confirmed my suspicions: this was Miles's apartment. The understated furniture, the practical but cozy décor—it all fit him perfectly.

Curiosity tugged at me as I tiptoed toward the door. I paused to take in the details that made the space inherently his. The bookshelves were meticulously organized, though a small stack of well-worn paperbacks sat haphazardly on the coffee table. A collection of old records leaned against a turntable, and a guitar rested on a stand in the corner, its strings glinting in the sunlight.

I couldn't help but smile. Of course, he plays guitar.

The scent of coffee grew stronger as I made my way to the living room, where a folded blanket and an extra pillow on the couch caught my attention. My heart sank slightly as I realized what that meant. He'd slept here. The faint indent in the cushions and the rumpled edges of the blanket confirmed it.

I ran a hand through my hair, guilt prickling at the back of my mind. He gave up his bed for me. Great. Just add that to the list of reasons I owe him.

The tidy nature of the space felt like an extension of Miles himself—calm, deliberate, and utterly reliable. It was comforting, but it also made my embarrassment worse.

I glanced at the doorway, considering retreating back into the bedroom and pretending this whole thing hadn't happened. But the faint hum of activity from downstairs reminded me that Miles was probably already up and about, handling the morning like the infuriatingly composed person he was.

I sighed, my stomach twisting with equal parts gratitude and mortification as I pulled open the door and trudged downstairs, bracing myself for the embarrassment to come.

The café was warm and inviting, its usual quiet hum even more soothing than I remembered. Miles was behind the counter, his hair slightly mussed and a soft smile playing on his lips as he worked. He wore a faded T-shirt and jeans, somehow looking effortlessly put together despite the early hour.

When he spotted me, his smile grew into something even more mischievous than he normally wore. "Morning, Kare-bear."

I winced. "Please don't call me that."

"Too late," he said, pouring a fresh cup of coffee. "It's your official nickname now."

I groaned, slumping into a seat at the counter. "This is mortifying. I'm sorry you had to—" I gestured vaguely around the café. "Deal with all of this."