The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 484

Mia's POV

Did I fall asleep in Kyle's car?

My eyes are closed, but I can still hear sounds. The soft hum of the engine. The whisper of tires against wet pavement. Something classical playing very low on the stereo—strings, maybe, or piano, the notes blurring together like watercolors.

I try to open my eyes. Fail. Try again. My lids feel weighted, sewn shut by exhaustion and champagne and whatever that shot was called. The Bad Decision. How fitting.

I shift in my seat, adjusting my position, and my stomach lurches—a warning. The nausea hasn't fully passed. It's still there, coiled and patient, waiting for the wrong movement.

"You're uncomfortable."

Oh. That's Kyle's voice. Low and close and somehow both question and statement at once.

I should nod. I think I do. My head feels disconnected from my neck, floating somewhere above my body. I'm not sure the motion actually happens.

Something changes. A mechanical whir. Cool air suddenly rushing against my face—he's lowered the window. The night pours in, crisp and sharp, carrying the particular smell of autumn in New York. Fallen leaves and distant rain and that metallic edge the city always has, even in the quiet hours.

"October," I hear myself say. The word comes out dreamy, distant, like I'm speaking from underwater.

"Yes." His voice is soft. Patient. "It's October."

I extend my hand toward the window. My fingers find the cold, let it wrap around them, let the night air kiss my palm. The sensation travels up my arm, through my chest, settling somewhere behind my eyes where the champagne fog is thickest.

Better. This is better.

I manage to open my eyes.

And that's when I realize.

Kyle is looking at me.

Not at the road. Not at the dashboard or the rearview mirror or any of the places a driver's eyes should be. At me. His face half-turned, the streetlights sliding across his features in intervals—shadow, gold, shadow, gold—creating a kind of strobe effect that makes him look almost unreal. Like something my drunk brain has conjured from memory and longing.

His eyes catch me first. Always his eyes. Gray as storm clouds, gray as the ocean before it swallows you, gray as the sky right before it breaks open and ruins everything. They're moving over my face with that particular intensity he has—the one that makes you feel examined, understood, seen in ways you didn't ask to be seen.

The air in the car changes. Tightens. Or maybe that's just the heat rolling through my body, every nerve ending suddenly awake despite the alcohol still swimming in my blood. When his gaze drops to my mouth—just for a second, just a flicker—I know with absolute certainty that if he leaned over right now, if he closed the distance between us, I would let him kiss me.

All the years. All the reasons why this is a terrible idea.

"I—"

"I—"

We speak at the same time. The words collide in the space between us, tangling together before either can land.

I swallow what I was going to say.

"Eyes on the road."

"Don't what?"

"Don't thank me for napkins." There's something in his voice—not quite humor, not quite frustration. Something softer. "The bar is already low enough."

A laugh escapes me. Weak and watery but real.

"The bar is underground, Kyle. The bar is in the earth's core."

"Then let me excavate it." He's not looking at me, but I can hear the almost-smile in his words. "One napkin at a time."

The music shifts. Something with more piano now. Debussy, maybe. Or Satie. Something that sounds like melancholy rendered in keys.

"You still listen to this," I say.

"Listen to what?"

"Classical. When you drive. You always—" I stop. Swallow. The memory rising unbidden: Kyle in our apartment, years ago, sitting at his desk at 3 AM with headphones on, Bach playing loud enough that I could hear it from the doorway. The way his shoulders would relax, just slightly, when the music started. Like something in him was finally allowed to rest.

"I remember," I finish quietly.

He doesn't respond right away. The piano keeps playing. The city keeps sliding past. My heartbeat keeps doing that thing it does around him—that irregular rhythm, that syncopated mess.

"Some things don't change," he says finally.