Brief
“Talk to me like that again.”
Miles said, eyebrows furrowed while his lips tightened, the expression on his face making it clear that someone was swinging his rights the wrong way, and his Spanish accent seeping out even more when he appeared to be slightly stunned or angered. In this case, the second description fit the situation better. Miles was dressed casually, durag on his head, his braids still resting on his neck, relaxed, and his face was lit by a faint lamp, illuminating his dark skin, his freckles and emphasizing his sharp facial features while he himself was in his pajamas, with black socks. He shakes his head like his father when he was still alive. His behavior was triggered by Mira’s attempt to show Miles that they too could shake their rights in Spanish.
And the phrase that initially put him in that state was 'cállate, tù pinche boca'. And now Miles was behaving in such a way to show that he would not swallow such a boorish attitude towards himself, and now, Mira wanted to explain himself, because in fact, he's Puerto Rican, a native speaker, and even his accent said so in front of his face, well, he wanted to argue with him in Spanish. Who does not do that?
“Aw hell nah dawg!”
Miles cuts off sharply at Mira’s request for a hug or tactility (which he does love, though, so under normal circumstances he'd be lying in their embrace by now), but now he is abruptly chin up. His gaze became skeptical, as if he saw a stranger in his home, and he pulled away sharply.
"No. Don't even try, Mira."
Miles's voice was lower, husky, with that warning tone only someone like him could carry—somewhere between irritation and wounded pride. He took a deep breath, looking away as if trying to swallow his temper, but the muscle in his jaw betrayed the futile effort.
"You know damn well I don't like being spoken to like that," he continued, his eyes now fixed on her, dark and intense. "Especially you."
Miles's expression made it hard to even apologize. He had this presence—dense, magnetic, the kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to silence someone.
He took a step forward, his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, his body still relaxed, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed otherwise.
"You're lucky I'm not like I used to be," he murmured, mostly to himself, but loud enough for her to hear. "Because a few years ago, I would have walked out that door and gone days without looking at you."
"You talk to me like I'm just anyone," he said, calmer now, but still firm. "And I'm not, Mira. I never was. You know that."
The drawl that sounded more pronounced when he was angry.
Miles stared at her for a long moment. The silence between them was heavy, but there was something beyond anger there—a familiar, almost intimate tension.
