When she uncovers his plan to lead an entirely uneventful life, Mia Evian is determined to teach Preston Maddox how to stop living like a ghost, but Mia and Preston have history, tension, and a lot of complicated feelings.
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To say I'm surprised by Preston's presence beside me when I wake up would be an understatement. Not because I forgot what happened last night–the opposite, really. I was sure he was going to have so intensely regretted the whole thing that he'd run, but no; he's sitting above the covers with a pillow behind his back, his glasses perched on his nose, and his left leg bent to prop up the notebook I banned him from yesterday.
That's why, in my half-asleep state, the first thing I utter aloud is, 'you're still here.'
A beat passes.
'Should I not be?' he replies into his notebook.
'No, it's good; it's a good thing,' I clarify. 'I just didn't think–It's–Ignore me.'
He turns to me then, his eyebrows raised. As our eyes meet, above all else, I'm hit with the realisation that this isn't... weird. This doesn't feel weird. At least, it doesn't until I realise that despite not wearing a shirt, Preston's bottom half is covered while my clothes–well, the clothes he lent me–remain a crumpled heap on the floor beside me.
'I thought you'd wake up and freak out,' I confess as I gather them. 'And then, y'know, fuck off to never be seen again.'
My comment earns me an unexpected smirk as he turns back to whatever he was writing, and I use the opportunity to throw his jumper over my torso. It's oversized enough to reach the top of my knees, so don't bother with the tracksuit bottoms.
He's still smirking into his notebook when I'm finished dressing, so I narrow my eyes. 'What?'
'I almost did,' he explains as he turns back to me, and before my inevitable spiral, continues with, 'but I quickly concluded how dreadful of a person that would make me.'
'It would,' I grumble. 'It'd make you a massive bellend, actually.'
He laughs through his nose, and I watch silently as he returns his attention to his notebook. I try to hold my tongue, but I've never been very good at that.
'Do you regret it?'
His silence is telling, and he knows that–he must know that.
'You do, don't you?' I say quietly.
'I don't,' he replies, pauses, then continues. 'I'm just not sure it was a good idea.'
I don't understand how that's any different, but I don't want to press the issue, especially not when he lifts his arm for me to shuffle closer and rest my head on his chest. He wasn't lying about the notebook last night; it's filled with nonsensical equations and illegible notes.
'You need to work on your handwriting,' I comment as I squint to read it.
'The extent of your kindness never ceases to amaze me.'
With that, he shuts his notebook, drops it onto the floor beside him, then places his glasses neatly on top of it. I'm still looking up at him when he leans his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes.
