Mikey’s head turns toward me immediately. His eyes narrow slightly, not in judgment, just in focus. “You don’t like storms,” he observes on a quiet breath.
It’s not a question. Heat rises in my cheeks. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue. He just shifts closer. One cushion, not two, and slow enough that I can see the choice. He doesn’t invade. He doesn’t force. He simply closes some of the distance like he’s making himself available. “You don’t have to pretend,” his voice low. “Not with me.”
My breath catches for a different reason this time. “Why are you being nice?” I blurt, because it’s easier than admitting what his kindness does to me.
Mikey’s mouth quirks, amused. “I’m always nice.”
I give him a flat look.
“Okay,” he concedes. “I’m not always nice. But I’m not being fake either.”
The storm surges again, rain pounding the roof like it’s trying to get in, and the candle flames wobble. I glance toward the hallway instinctively, my shoulders lifting. Mikey follows my gaze, then stands. “You hungry?”
The question is so normal it throws me. “I guess?”
“Cool.” He heads toward the kitchen like he lives here. Which is ridiculous. This is Dean’s house. But Mikey moves through it with an ease that tells me he’s been here a lot. He probably has. The band is like family. Brothers in all but blood. I hear drawers open, cabinets close. The clink of dishes.
The storm rumbles again. I hate how relieved I feel just hearing him in the next room. Like sound itself is an anchor. When he returns, he’s carrying a plate of food, two glasses, and a bottle of red wine tucked under his arm.
My eyes widen. “Is that Dean’s?”
“Dean doesn’t drink wine. It’s probably Sadie’s.” Mikey smirks. “Plus, I figure you’ll throw me out if I open the tequila.”
“Tequila actually sounds pretty good right about now,” I joke.
He sets everything on the coffee table and lowers himself onto the floor, cross-legged like this is normal. “Come on. Picnic.”
I stare at him. “In the living room.”
“In the living room,” he confirms, unbothered. “Unless you want to go outside.”
I snort. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet I’m still here,” he reminds me, glancing up, amusement and something darker flickering behind his eyes. My chest tightens. I slide off the couch and sit on the floor across from him, close enough that the candlelight warms my skin.
The food is just some leftovers from the fridge; grilled chicken, salad, bread. It’s simple yet comforting. Mikey portions it out like he’s done this before, and I find myself watching his hands. Strong. Steady. He pours the wine into the glasses, offering one to me. I hesitate.
He shrugs, reading me easily. “Not trying to get you drunk. Just trying to make the storm less loud.” The way he says it like he understands the difference between fear and discomfortloosens something in me. I take the glass, our fingers brushing, the electricity sparking under my skin not going unnoticed. The first sip warms my throat, settles low in my chest. Not numbing. Just softening.
We eat slowly, talking about nothing at first. The apartment hunt. Neighborhoods. A place he thinks I’d like because it has a bookstore around the corner. A building with an old elevator that “has character,” which I inform him is code for “will trap you between floors and kill you.” He laughs, real and warm, the sound filling the candlelit room.
Outside, the storm continues, but inside, the quiet has shifted. It’s not oppressive now. It’s intimate. At one point, Mikey reaches for the bread at the same time I do, and our fingers brush again. My entire body reacts like it’s been zapped by the lightening outside. I pull my hand back too quickly, and Mikey’s gaze flicks up. He just watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“Sorry,” I murmur automatically.
He responds, voice low. “Don’t apologize for that.”
My throat goes tight. “For what?”
His gaze drops to my hand, then back to my face. “For reacting.”
My pulse stutters. I take another sip of wine, needing something to do with my mouth. My hands. Mikey’s eyes track the movement of the glass to my lips, and heat curls low in my stomach.
The storm cracks again, thunder ripping through the sky like a warning, and I flinch. Mikey’s hand comes out without hesitation, covering my knee. The contact is warm and solid, almost too much. My breath catches. His thumb shifts slightly, a slow stroke against my skin that feels entirely intentional. “You’re okay.”
I nod, but I don’t pull away. The silence stretches, thick with things we’re not saying.
