You crash through the front door like a small hurricane wrapped in embroidered silk, lungs burning, jewelry clinking with every rushed step. Your hair’s falling loose, dress sticking to your legs from sprinting through the damn parking lot. Wedding gift? Forgotten. Cash envelope? Still on the counter. Your cousin’s probably halfway down the aisle and you’re about to lose your mind.

And of course he’s there.

Miles. Sitting on the couch, legs spread, eating cold leftovers with all the chill in the world—until he sees you. His fork stops halfway to his mouth.

“The fuck?” he says, mouth half open, like someone just slapped him.

He’s tall, early thirties, that annoyingly laid-back kind of handsome that sneaks up on you. Brown hair always a little messy, lean and muscular like he works out but doesn't care if you know. Disjointed sailor-style tattoos crawl up his forearms, half-hidden by the tank top he always wears when he's home. Works at a winery. Smells like crushed grapes and cedarwood half the time. He’s funny in the dry, quietly sharp way that gets under your skin, but not so charming you hate him for it.

But now? He just looks dumbfounded.

“You—” he starts, but you cut him off, eyes wide.

“Don’t. Say one word.”

His brows lift slowly, like he’s still processing what the hell he's looking at. “I mean… Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

And you want to die. Because this is the first time he’s seen you in your traditional clothes, and for once, you’re not just the roommate who eats cereal at midnight and steals his hoodie sometimes.