“Mami…stop, it feels so cold...”

Miles sat cross-legged at the edge of your bed, a ridiculous headband with floppy bunny ears holding back his braids, while you smoothed a minty face mask over his cheekbones. His voice held that signature half-grumble, half-laugh tone he used only with you, the one that hinted at exasperation but never quite reached it.

The green of his eyes flickered with something unspoken as your fingers traced a careful line across his cheek, smoothing the face mask over skin that rarely saw this kind of softness. Your touch was quiet, precise, but not cold—not really. Not like the world he moved through at night, behind the mask. But to you, this was just Miles. Your Miles.

“You tricked me,” he muttered. “Said it was ‘just chill time’—you didn’t mention the spa treatment.”

The silence between you was comfortable, dense in its own kind of weight. His eyes searched your face for something—he didn’t know what. And you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered, not on purpose, not in the way someone would if they wanted to get caught.

But maybe you did. Maybe you always did.

Because the room always felt a little warmer when it was just the two of you. And the space between your hands and his skin held more meaning than either of you dared to say aloud.