Page 125 of Heroes & Hitmen
“Miles Raines,” the dean calls.
Boom. That’s my cue.
I’m on my feet in an instant, cupping my hands around my mouth and letting loose the most obnoxious, full-volume, gut-deep howl I’ve ever produced– part wolf, part frat boy, all heart. It echoes off the rafters like a battle cry.
People turn. Someone gasps. I see Miley freeze mid-step on the stage, eyes locking on mine, and she gives me the tiniest withering shake of her head before marching forward.
Worth it.
She walks like she owns the damn stage. She may be wearing a shapeless black cap and gown, but with the way she moves, you’d think she was on a Paris runway. Grace in motion, power under pressure. She takes the diploma, shakes the dean’s hand, and then turns to the photographer with a perfect camera-ready smile.
I howl again, even louder this time, and the guy next to me claps a hand to his chest dramatically like I’ve triggered a cardiac event.
Miley strides back to her seat, chin high, and I can’t stop staring. She’s got this glow about her; this calm, collected strength that floors me every time. I don’t register a single name that comes after hers– just the thrum of pride in my chest, a rhythm I’d match to hers any day.
Eventually, the last name is called and the place erupts, hats flying like confetti. The procession of graduates files out, then their families surge to the aisles, desperate to get outside and find their grads. I bulldoze my way through the masses, using height, shoulders, and sheer determination to reach mine.
Outside, the sun is blinding, the sidewalk a chaotic scene of black robes, hugs, and proud parents taking blurry photos. I spot Miley perched on the edge of a planter, fiddling with the tassel on her cap, surrounded by a perimeter of personal space she’s carved out with nothing but body language. She looks up, sees me, and the way her face lights up is better than any diploma.
I don’t slow down. I barrel toward her, scoop her off the ground, and spin her around while ignoring the shrieks of ‘put me down, youmaniac!’, only obliging after she pinches my arm hard enough to say she means it.
“I thought I told younotto make a scene,” she admonishes once she’s back on her feet, straightening her robe and fixing her hair.
I’m grinning so hard it actually hurts. “Hey, that was only half as loud as I wanted to be,” I say, holding my arms open for her.
She rolls her eyes but steps in anyway, right where she belongs. I hold her close, breathe in her scent, and press a kiss to the top of her head.
“Thanks for coming,” she whispers.
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, sweetheart.”
I want to tell her that I’d sit through a thousand more graduations if it meant watching her walk that stage. That there’s not a single thing in this world I wouldn’t do to keep that look on her face. But instead, I just hold her, because words don’t seem like enough to convey how much this girl truly means to me.
She wraps her arms around my neck, gorgeous eyes shining as she tilts her face upward and her mouth finds mine like she’s been waiting for this all day. The kiss is fierce, breathless, fire and gravity rolled into one. Her gown tangles in my hands, the cap slipping from her head, but fuck it. We’veearnedthis.
When she pulls back, her hair’s a little wild, eyes alive, and I fall in love with her all over again.
“I can’t believe we did it,” she breathes.
“Youdid it,” I say, running my hands down her back, heart swelling with pride.
She tilts her head, mischief and memory in her eyes. For a second, I see the girl who started all this– stubborn, terrified, brilliant– and then she grins like she owns the ending.
“How should we celebrate?” she asks brightly.
“I’ve heard rumors about a few afterparties,” I say slyly, raising a brow.
She scrunches her nose, shaking her head. “Pass.”
“Party for two, then?”
I offer my hand and she nods, slapping her palm into mine. “Take me home, Mr. Raines.”
“Not our home for much longer, Mrs. Raines,” I remind her with a wink.
We’re moving this weekend. The last month has been a blur of packing– boxes everywhere, our lives sorted and taped up. We’veargued about what to keep, especially the absurd number of coffee mugs she’s hoarded. Spoiler: we’re keepingallof them.
Still, the thought of leaving that apartment hits harder than I thought it would. It’s where our story started. Where we pretended, where we stopped pretending. Where we figured out how to be a team. We’ve made memories there, built something special together.
