Sadie laughs, then he’s kissing her again, quick and hungry, as he tugs her toward the stairs like he’s losing his mind. She tosses me a look over her shoulder.Sorry not sorry.
“Take your time,” I call, deadpan. “No really. Takeso much time.”
Sadie’s laughter floats down the hall as they disappear upstairs and a door clicks shut with finality. I stand in the living room, suddenly alone, and for a moment the silence presses in. Not lonely. Just, aware.
I set my backpack down and bring in the pile of boxes we hauled from New York. My life in cardboard. My choices stacked in corners. I open a box at random. My textbooks. A journal. A framed photo of Mom and Dad at the beach last summer. I run my thumb over the glass and swallow hard. I miss them already. Even though mom FaceTimed Sadie and I seven times in the last few days.
I carry the photo upstairs and find the guest room meant for me. It’s simple. It has neutral walls, a bed made neatly with navy sheets, a small dresser, a desk near the window. Clean, calm, and spacious.
I set the photo on the desk, then sit on the edge of the bed and let myself feel the excitement underneath everything. Two weeks. That’s how long before my job starts. Two weeks to find an apartment, learn my commute, memorize streets, find a coffee shop that feels like a routine. Two weeks to prove to myself I can do this.
I unpack in small, manageable increments. I bring the boxes upstairs, and I put some of my books on the shelf. Fold clothes into drawers. Stack my work folders on the desk like a promise. Every item placed makes the room feel a little less like borrowed space more like mine.
Downstairs, I hear the front door open. Footsteps. A pause. Then a voice I recognize instantly. “Anyone home?”
My body goes still. I wasn’t expecting him. Not yet. Not tonight. I head down the stairs slowly, not because I’m afraid, but because something in me wants to observe before I react.
Mikey stands in the kitchen, keys in hand, shoulders relaxed in a way that feels quieter than usual. He’s dressed down in ablack T-shirt and worn jeans. No tequila. No forced grin. Just, him.
His eyes lift to mine and for a moment something like relief flickers there. I feel that more than I should. “Hey Quinn.”
“Hey drummer boy,” I quip, leaning against the doorway.
He holds up a paper bag. “I brought Thai. Dean said to bring food in case you two were hungry.”
That simple gesture probably means more than it should. It’s thoughtful. Normal. Domestic. He’s kind without making a spectacle of it.
“Thank you,” I express, genuinely grateful for something other than diner food.
Mikey clears his throat, stepping further into the kitchen. “Dean here?”
“Upstairs. Reuniting.” I can’t help the eye roll that escapes.
Mikey’s mouth quirks. “Ten days without her and he’s acting like he survived war.”
“You didn’t witness the hello kiss,” I groan. “It was intense.”
Mikey laughs, and it’s real; low and warm. “Yeah, that tracks.”
We open the bag he brought and unload the food. We eat at the kitchen island, and for a few minutes the only sounds are chopsticks and the faint hum of the refrigerator. Mikey’s presence is different like this. Quieter. Not trying so hard. And it makes me feel things I don’t want to feel.
Our hands reach for the same container and collide. We both pause. Just for a second. Then he pulls back. “Go ahead.” I take the container, but I feel the space where his hand was against mine a beat longer than necessary.
“So,” he finally glances across at me. “How was the drive?”
“Long,” I admit. “Mostly uneventful. Sadie tried to convince me that surviving on diner food for three days without feeling sick is entirely possible.”
“It is,” Mikey replies with solemn certainty. “It’s basically her brand.”
I laugh, surprised at how easily it comes. He takes a sip of water. Water. Not alcohol. I notice. I don’t comment. “How’s the studio been?” I ask instead.
He nods. “We’re easing in, but Luc is in full dictator mode already.”
“Shocking,” I chuff dryly.
Mikey grins. “Right? He’s all ‘artistic integrity’ and ‘vocal stamina’ and ‘we have to evolve’ like he didn’t once write a song about a girl’s ass in a leather skirt.”
My laugh bursts out. “He did not.”
