Page 77 of Hearts on Ice
The strangest part was how natural it felt—this rhythm, this nearness, this steady presence I hadn’t realized I craved. We had crossed a line two weeks ago, and instead of panic, all I felt was a kind of peace I hadn’t known in years. Maybe ever.
Some mornings I’d roll over and catch him watching me, hair rumpled, eyes soft with a warmth that made something in my chest pull tight in the best way. Other mornings he’d tangle his legs with mine as if reclaiming the space sleep had stolen from us.
And every morning I found myself thinking the same thing:
How the hell did I get this lucky?
How did I go from believing that part of my life was over—dead and buried with my wife and daughter—to this? To laughter in my kitchen. To music drifting down my hallway. To hands on my waist and lips on my neck and the steady, certain truth that Miguel Rodriguez wanted me. Chose me. Came back to me every night without being asked.
Some days it scared me.
Most days it saved me.
All of it—the brushing teeth side by side, the shared coffee mugs, the way he hummed when he cooked, the way he kissed me goodnight and good morning like the two moments were equally sacred—felt like a life I never saw coming but suddenly couldn’t imagine living without.
And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.
Because love was loud.
But this—this quiet, everyday belonging—was louder.
The morning light was just beginning to smudge the sky when we stepped outside. Early December in L.A. meant a soft bite in the air—cool enough to make you tuck your hands into your sleeves, warm enough that your breath never quite fogged. The mist hung low along the hedges, giving the street that blurred, quiet look like the world hadn’t woken up fully yet.
Miguel stretched his arms overhead and let out an exaggerated groan.
“You stretch like my abuela,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “And you walk like someone who skipped leg day.”
He gasped—loudly, dramatically—then nudged my shoulder. “Bold words from a man who warms up like a senior citizen.”
“You started it.”
He laughed—soft, bright. One of my favorite sounds.
We set off down the block. Not running—my knee didn’t allow that—but a brisk walk we’d fallen into like muscle memory. He could’ve jogged the whole trail, probably even sprinted it, but he never made me feel slow. He matched my pace like it was the only pace that mattered.
Sometimes our hands brushed. Sometimes our shoulders did. None of it felt accidental.
We cut toward the ridge path that curled behind the neighborhood—quiet, tucked between houses and eucalyptus trees, mostly forgotten by anyone except dog walkers and the occasional retiree getting steps in before sunrise. The earth smelled cool and faintly sweet, and when the wind shifted, I caught the faint, minty tang of crushed leaves under our shoes.
As we climbed, the sun pushed up over the horizon in a slow wash of gold. Miguel stopped at our usual place—the flat stretch overlooking the rooftops and a sliver of ocean in the distance. I still wasn’t used to having a “usual place” with someone again. But somehow, in the last two weeks, this spot had become ours.
He lifted his phone.
“Hold still,” he said. “One day we’re gonna want proof we looked this good at 28 and 40.”
“I look like someone who got four hours of sleep,” I said.
“Exactly,” he grinned. “That’s the good part.”
He leaned into me as he snapped the selfie—my stubble brushing his temple, his hair still sleep-mussed, both of us lit by the first orange flicker of sun. When he pulled back to look at the photo, the soft way he smiled at the screen did something warm and aching in my chest.
Miguel lifted his phone. “Okay—one more.”Snap. “And another. The sun’s doing good things to you right now.”Snap.
He showed me the screen, scrolling.
“Send me that one,” I said, tapping the shot where we both looked half-asleep, but ridiculously half-happy too. He did.
