She’s not quite Miles. She has the same colouring, the same surprising scattering of pale, barely-there freckles across the tops of her shoulders, almost the same eyes – they’re only a little harder, a little sharper around the edges, the lashes thicker on the top lids, and thinner on the bottom. He can press his face into her neck, and bite back the words about how much he missed you, just barely bite them back, and she smells almost the same; a little sweeter. The sound she makes as he pushes into her is a little different, but it comes from the same place, the same trained voice breaking and trying to gather itself up again.
He closes his eyes. Bites it back, the wrong name, right on his lips. There against her neck, stoppered between his tongue and her flesh, his teeth, scraping a line from her jugular to the connecting tendon between shoulder and neck, those freckles, sobbing his orgasm against her chest,
she’s not quite Miles.
He trails his lips downward, I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, here to the place where she is most decidedly Not Miles of all, and he keeps his eyes open, and he makes it up. To her, as he goes along, on the fly. He makes it up, until he can get that voice out of her again, breaking, and trying to gather itself up.