I’ve been pacingthe Clark/Lake platform for twelve minutes. I know this because the arrival board has flipped twice and I’ve checked my watch more times than is reasonable for a man who has spent most of his adult life not waiting for anyone.
Quinn took the Green Line in from Oak Park. Her idea. Logical. Independent. She wants to learn how to get into the city using public transportation. Veryher. Which means this whole thing already feels different.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket and scan the platform again. People spill off trains in clusters. Tourists, commuters, couples moving in practiced synchrony. None of them are her.
This was supposed to be easy. Apartment hunting. Neighborhoods. Coffee. Me being helpful and normal and not thinking about the fact that the last time Quinn got under my skin, she walked away afterward like she wasn’t rattled at all.
The train screeches in, metal screaming against metal, wind whipping through the platform. Doors slide open. And after a few minutes, she steps out with a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, hair down, expression calm like she hasn’t just detonated my entire nervous system. She’s wearing jeans, sneakers andmydamn sweatshirt.
My chest tightens so fast it’s almost painful. It’s the gray one. My favorite one. It’s soft and worn in. The one sheborrowedduring her visit in New York when we were on tour. Seeing it on her, casual, intentional, unmistakably mine, hits harder than any flirt ever has. At least her legs are covered in jeans this time.
She looks up, spots me, and smiles. Not tentative. Not coy. Like she expected me to be here. I’m so fucked. “Drummer boy,” she stops when she reaches me, warmth in her voice.
“Doctor girl,” I reply, hoping she can’t hear the way my pulse has gone completely feral.
She glances down at herself, then back up at me, lips twitching. “You look surprised.”
“Y-You stole my favorite sweatshirt,” I manage to stutter out, nodding at the garment.
She shrugs, unfazed. “It’s comfortable.”
That’s it. That’s the whole explanation. I bite back a grin. “You’re aware that’s not an apology.”
“I’m not sorry,” she informs me, flashing a sly grin. Of course she isn’t. I shake my head and lead her out of the station, the city opening up around us in layered sound and motion. Traffic. Voices. The hum of something always happening. Quinn moves beside me like she belongs here already, matching my pace without effort.
“How was the train?” I change the subject.
“Efficient,” she replies. “Crowded and slightly chaotic. Very on brand.”
I chuckle. “Welcome to Chicago.”
“I’m thinking that will be easier than trying to drive my car into the city for work every day though.”
“It absolutely will be.” I confirm. We start in Lincoln Park, walking tree-lined streets that feel calmer than downtown but still alive. I live in this neighborhood, but I don’t tell her that. I don’t want that to influence any decision she makes. I point things out; coffee shops, grocery stores, little places you only notice if you live here. Quinn listens. Asks questions. Absorbs.
She’s wearingmysweatshirt. She’s so totally trying to get under my skin. She knew it would get a reaction out of me. That’s what’s killing me and all I can think about.
We tour a couple of places. One is overpriced. Another is charming but smells like mildew. Quinn takes it all in with the same thoughtful calm, never rushing, never apologizing for being discerning.
At some point, I realize I’m watching her more than the apartments. The way she tilts her head when she’s considering something. The way she doesn’t fill silence just because it exists. The way she touches her sleeve absentmindedly—my sleeve—like she forgot she’s wearing it.
We stop for coffee and sit on a low brick wall near a park. She stretches her legs out in front of her, relaxed. “You’re calmer today.”
I snort softly. “You say that like it’s a diagnosis.”
“It’s an observation,” she counters, smirking.
I glance at her. “You collecting those?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
The flirting is there now. No longer hypothetical. Not loud, but sharp. But it feels intentional. We walk more. Talk about her job, about what kind of space she wants. Talk about music, about the city. About nothing. About everything. And the longer we’re alone together, the harder it gets to keep pretending this is just friendly.
At a crosswalk, she bumps her shoulder lightly into mine. On purpose. My jaw tightens. “You’re doing that thing,” I warn.
She looks at me, innocent. “What thing?”
“That thing where you pretend you don’t know what you’re doing, but you absolutely do.”
