I exhale. “You’re charming. And loud. And you are definitely easy to look at.”
Mikey stills, his eyes meeting mine.
“And you flirt like it’s a reflex,” I continue, because the wine has loosened my tongue. “I just wonder if it’s you deflecting or if you really like me.”
His gaze sharpens. “I don’t deflect with you.”
I meet his eyes. “You are. You do. You did it at the station. You did it on the bench. You did it on tour.”
Mikey’s jaw tightens. His thumb strokes the inside of my knee again, slow. “I guess it’s because I want to know if you’ll bite back,” his voice low.
Heat curls through me. “That’s not fair,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees with a tilt of his chin. “But it’s the truth.”
The same words he used before. The same tone. I stare at him, my breath shallow. “You don’t get to use wanting me as leverage,” I repeat, needing the boundary like a rope.
Mikey leans in, close enough that I can feel his warmth. Close enough that the air between us feels charged. “I’m not using it,” he practically growls. “I’m offering it.”
My heart hammers. His eyes flick to my mouth. Back to my eyes. He’s so close I can count the freckles across his nose. “I could kiss you right now,” he says, voice low, controlled. “And hell, I want to.”
My pulse stutters. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t take. Just waits. And that, that might be worse. Because now I know. He will. If I let him.
The storm cracks overhead, loud enough to rattle the windows, and my body reacts on instinct with sharp inhale and I lean into him. Not thinking. Not calculating. Just reacting. His hand tightens at my waist, steadying me, and that’s all it takes. I close the distance. And this kiss is different than the one on the street. Slower, but deeper. Less surprise, and with more intent.
His mouth moves against mine like he’s been holding back for days, like he’s measured every second even as he leans into it. My fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring myself to something solid as the storm crashes around us.
It lasts longer than the first. Long enough to feel it. Long enough to know this isn’t just tension anymore. This is something else. And that, that is exactly why I pull back. My breath is uneven. So is his.
I inhale sharply, not from fear this time. From him. From the way he feels too solid to be real. If I’m honest with myself, I’d admit I like him. Instead, I do what I don’t want to. “Michael,” I whisper, his name slipping out like a warning.
His eyes lock onto mine. “Quinn?”
“Okay,” I whisper, shaking my head slightly like I’m trying to reset my own thoughts. “We can’t keep doing that like it doesn’t mean anything.”
His eyes stay locked on mine. “I never said it didn’t.”
“I know,” I admit, quieter now. “That’s the problem.”
His hand is still at my waist. I notice. He notices that I notice. And then, slowly, he lets go. That matters.
“One step at a time,” I say again, softer this time. Not a rule. A reminder. His mouth curves, but it’s not cocky. It’s something steadier.
“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m still here for that.”
He settles back on his side of the makeshift picnic, his posture tense like he’s holding himself in place through sheer will. I stare at him, my chest tight, my skin warm, my mind spinning. I cross my arms and the storm begins to ease, as if it’s listening.
The rain softens from a roar to a steady rhythm. The thunder moves farther away. In the quiet, after the almost-moment, we sit in candlelight, breathing through the tension neither of us knows what to do with.
Eventually, Mikey clears his throat. “If it makes you feel better,” his voice careful, “I’m pretty sure I just set a personal record for restraint.”
I laugh, the sound shaky but real. “Do you want a medal?”
He shrugs with a smile. “Some kind of prize would be nice.”
“I’ll see if I can think of something.” I chuff out a nervous laugh.
“I can give you some ideas if you want.” One side of his mouth kicking up in a coy grin.
