Miles (42) getting into his first real fight with Mrs. Morales when she says she doesn’t like his s/o.
“You told me you wanted me to put myself out there and make friends. Mama, I’ve found so much more than just a friend. I got someone who makes me happy, someone who loves me. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Of course it is, mijo. I just don’t-”
“I am happy. They make me happy. If you don’t like that then…deal with it. I’ve fallen in love, ma. I know that for sure.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Dad would’ve thought differently.”
“You’re right, it’s not.”
“Miles! Where are you going!”
“No, don’t you dare open that door, Gonzalo.”
He paused, fingertips barely brushing the doorknob before taking a quick breath and continuing.
He pulled the door open, ignoring the calls of his Mother as he rushed down the stairs. Not willing to face the possibility of either her wrath or her worry. He didn’t quite know which one was worse.
He knew bringing up his dad was a low blow. How it was unfair on his Ma. But he couldn’t help it. He was right. If his dad was here, he’d be encouraging Miles in finally finding someone who brings him happiness like you do.
He’d be telling stories of how smitten he was with Rio, and would fawn over the prospect of young love. Would tell Miles how lifelong partners run in the family, how it’s not just some high-school sweetheart, it’s something to cherish and let blossom into something forever. Something to never let go of, if you had the choice.
Miles felt a quick tear drop down his cheek, and in his rush to get to you, he hadn’t even noticed his crying.
He was hurt. Not only from the thoughts of his father, but from fighting with his Ma, too. He hated it, not usually willing to leave fights on unhappy endings, but this was just something else.
He didn’t want to think of you as something negative. You weren’t that. You were so good to him. Too good for him. And he needed Rio to realise that he wasn’t naïve when it came to you, he knew your ins and outs almost better than he knew his own.
But she couldn’t see that.
So when he knocked on your door, and you opened it before the sixtieth second, he wasn’t surprised.
You worriedly wiped the stray tears of his cheeks and kissed them away and he melted into you. You gathered him in your arms, letting his taller form slump over you in what could be considered a hug, and ushered him into your apartment. Not pushing him to talk to you, but listening when he did
You kissed his woes away, and dragged his focus from the depths of his mind to the finger scratching at his scalp. Light and sweet, just like you were to him.
He let you hold him, and shuffled his hands into your shirt, feeling the warmth of your back spread over his fingertips.
Bumps rose on every shiver your touch brought him, and you soothed them out. Swiping soft hands over rough skin and tearing the discomfort out of his bones, molding him like clay in the heat of your palm.
He wonders how you could be so in love with him. How you could look at him as if he hung the stars solely to lead a path of light from him to you. How you could cherish him in any such ways as you already do, when he’s the one crying. He’s the one seeking comfort and a body to hold.
How could you think caring for him is the greatest act you could commit?
And then he tells you he loves you, mumbled and incoherent.
And you whispered it back, with feverish admiration.