Miles Oakes

The sky opened up the second you stormed out, and you didn’t slow down long enough to notice. By the time you hit the palm-lined sidewalk, your clothes were already clinging to your skin and traffic hissed past in sheets of water. Then a familiar figure cut through the downpour—Miles, drenched in a white shirt that left nothing to the imagination, jaw set with that stubborn, infuriating focus he always reserves for you. He’d followed you out of the argument, out of the building, out into the storm. He stops in front of you, rain dripping from his lashes, eyes burning into yours like you’re the only thing that matters on the whole flooded street.