How to Fall in Love ✔

How to Fall in Love (17)

Was he nocturnal?

"I'm entering."

Before I could spill out a response, the door creaked softly open, and in the doorway, true to word, was Miles. He looked like he needed sleep—badly. His hair was all over the place, his forehead was showing all the wrinkles in the universe (not really), and he looked pale. He'd clearly been busy, because in his hands, there was a tray. And on the tray were two glasses of milk, a bowl of garlic bread, and a dish of lasagna.

"Oh, good, you're awake," he said, smiling down at me. I immediately snatched the pad of paper and placed it inside the desk drawer and hoisted myself up, just as he laid the tray down on the now vacant desk, the lampshade still on. "I brought you food. I realize you haven't eaten dinner. The moment I offered you the room last night, you went to bed and there was no force in the universe that could wake you up."

He really was Challuring. He was charming, and alluring, and this time, I wasn't talking about his looks. He was charming and alluring inside. "Thank you," I breathed out, smiling back. "You didn't have to."

"You and I both know that's a lie," he said. My stomach growled, much to my mortification, coloring my cheeks the slightest hint of pink. Miles lifted his eyebrows. "Your stomach agrees to my testament."

"Fine," I deadpanned. "You're right, I'm wrong."

He chuckled, shaking his head and walking over to the one-man bed on the right side of the room, he watched me, saying, "Now that we've established that, go dig in."

I paused, eyeing him with a small amount of amusement. "I'm not a dog."

"And you're not busog," he countered.

My eyebrows furrowed at the unfamiliar term. "Boo-soug?"

"Busog," he clarified. "The stress is in the second syllable. A foreign slang. They use it a lot in the Philippines—it's in Asia—to indicate whether or not you're satisfied with your meal or you feel like your stomach's gonna explode."

Taking the information in and inwardly adding the word to my vocabulary, the other information registered in my brain. "You're Filipino?"

A soft chuckle graced his lips. "Just half. I'm not incredibly fluent in the language, but my friend is. She speaks Filipino a lot." He slowly added a smile. "It rubs off on me."

"She," I murmured under my breath.

I looked up from my food, and stared at Miles. He was sat on the foot of the bed, looking at his dangling feet while . . . smiling. Smiling, like he remembered a jovial memory. Smiling, like he'd tucked himself into his own world.

It spread fast. So fast, in fact, that I hadn't even noticed he caught me smiling, to which his own smile was suspended. "You're smiling," he stated, staring at me.

I shook my head, even though ironically, my smile only grew wider.

"You're prettier when you smile."

I think I heard butterfly wings flutter right beside my ear, at that moment. "Sure."

A laugh erupted from his lips. "You're welcome," he said. There was a slight pause, like he weighed something, before saying something again. "I bet you'll be prettiest when you've eaten enough, though. So go eat, seriously."

And then I did, and we then shared the bowl of delicious garlic bread I found out he himself formulated the recipe for, and I felt euphoric, and that's why it was a little late when I realized there were two glasses of milk because he wanted to share this meal with me for another reason completely.