Chapter Two

Miles is still holding me in his arms, my hand gently landing on his chest, feeling his beating heart.

“Yes, really,” he replies confidently and leans down so at to reach my height with the sole objective of getting a kiss from me.

He’s a good guy. Too good for me. It’s at times like these that I realize that. He just jumped in for me to make dinner, and here I am making sure that he works his way to get a greeting kiss.

But I think he enjoys it, or otherwise, his eyes wouldn’t be expressing the overflowing level of enjoyment that his getting from the way I am teasing him.

I push a little against his chest, putting some distance between us and stopping him from getting to his goal: kissing me. In reply, he frowns which just makes me smile even more.

I remove one of my hands from his chest and put it against my chin in the classic ‘I’m thinking about something’ way. I don’t know about that Miles, I mean the air that is currently feeling my lungs seems pretty free to me and—”

But that’s as far as I get in my sentence because he removes my hands from between us, and connects his lips to mine.

This is not the first time that we are kissing, but it never gets old for me. Each kiss is like the first only better.

What started off as an innocent peck on the lips, turns into a full-blown open-mouth kissing session. It would be a lie if I said that I didn’t enjoy it. I do. Liking it doesn’t even begin to cover it. I love it. I love him.

His arms around my waist tightens and my hands, that were sitting at my sides idly, move to his neck and then to his silky truffle-brown hair.

My stupid stomach decides to put an end to our moment by grumbling once again, and he pulls away. He looks at me and I can’t help but blush.

“Sorry,” I say, smiling sheepishly.

He returns my smile with one of his dashing ones and says, “Don’t sweat it.” He takes my hand and starts to lead me out of the kitchen.

“Uh, why are you kicking me out of the kitchen?” I ask.

“To avoid having to explain to you why I don’t like being helped while cooking. You are only going to argue with me and then dinner will burn like last time. So to save both our sanities and time, I’m temporarily kicking you out,” he explains as we reach the dining room.

“You are lucky I’m too tired to argue with you right now,” I reply.

I take a seat at the dining table. “Yeah, lucky me,” He replies in a mocking tone. “Dinner will be served in five.”

With that,he disappears back into the kitchen and then comes back the plates and then the dishes

“Please don’t drool in the pot,” He jokes.

I send him a glare for teasing me while I’m quite literary starving to death. “I’m not.”

He points at something in my mouth. “Uh, the evidence says otherwise.”

I know that I’m not drooling. I only drool when I’m sleeping and that’s how I know that he is lying. But for some reason, my hand decides to wipe the imaginary drool away from my mouth. This small action makes him explode into laughter.

He takes his usual spot at the dining table in front of me once he is done setting the table.

“Screw you,” I mutter under my breath but the way he looks at me surprised—in a teasing way—suggests that the heard me.

His puts his elbow on the table and his fist against his cheek, the classic ‘I’m studying you’ pose. “Since when did we start to cuss?” He asks.

He doesn’t make a move to serve me , so I decide to help myself. “Since you started with the annoying teasing?”

“I started?” He asks, pointing a finger at himself.

Technically, I’m the one that started with the teasing but since I’m not ready to admit it, I just roll my eyes which only makes him laughs, evidently happy that he won our argument.

I’m done serving myself, and wait for him to also start serving himself. He does and settles back in his chair. He likes serving while standing. I have never known why but I’m too hungry to care now.

I finally get to eat. Not wanting to sound ungrateful. I look at him, flashing him my most genuine smile and I hope that he gets just how much grateful I really am. “Thanks, Miles for this.”

That’s all I shoot before I go for the first spoon. Finally.

Miles phone rings and he excuses himself but not before I notice the frown etched on his face upon seeing the caller ID.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this,” he replies, seriousness lacing his tone which also matches his facial expression, as he stands up and goes back to the kitchen, clearly for some privacy.

We have a strong ‘No phones during dinner’ rule so him receiving a call, breaking his own rule—which is something that he would never do—only says one thing: it must be something serious.

The expression that he had, kills my appetite and I push my plate aside.

“...I will be right there,” he says before hanging up.

A few moments later he emerges from the kitchen, his face a mixture of emotions that despite our staying together, I quite couldn’t decipher them all except for fear and worry.

“Sorry, I have to head to the station,” he apologizes as he reaches for his jacket and shrugs it on.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice laced with the concern that’s creeping in.

He shoots me an apologetic smile. “Remember when I told you that I had a younger brother?”

“Yes?” I reply

“Well, it’s time you met him.”

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