“PlayStation,” I expand on my observation. “Controllers. Giant TV. The whole vibe.” I glance around, then continue. “But all the candles, the low lighting, the stereo setup, those screamchick magnet.”
Mikey stills. Like I hit a button I didn’t know was there. I blink, immediately aware I might’ve misread the line between teasing and too personal. Then he grits out, “It’s not.”
My brows knit. “It’s not what?”
“A chick magnet.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s not for that.”
I hold his gaze. “Oh, okay.”
Mikey exhales like he’s already halfway annoyed with himself. “I’ve never brought a girl here.”
I stare at him, sure I misheard. “What?”
He shrugs, looking away. “Never brought anyone here.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I spout before I can stop myself, because I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the way women orbit him like gravity works differently around famous men. I’ve seen the way he wears charm like armor. I’ve seen him make himself easy to want.
Mikey’s eyes flick back to mine, and for a split second, I see it; the crack. Something careful and guarded beneath the humor. “It does makes sense,” he explains, “if you don’t want them to see you when you’re not on. This place is just for me.”
The words hang between us. I don’t respond right away, because I can’t. Not without stepping into territory I promised myself I wouldn’t touch. Instead, I pick up my chopsticks again, hands steady. “So, what do you do? Just go home with them?”
“Pretty much.” He shoots me a humorless smile. “Or there’s always a bathroom sink. A random hotel room. Her car. Whatever is convenient.”
Something tightens in my chest. Not jealousy. Not exactly, but it’s something I’m not ready to examine too closely yet. I nod slowly knowing the admission isn’t a flex. It’s a boundary. One he put there for a reason. This is his safe space. What he does away from here doesn’t actually reflect him, but a way he escapes. And yet, somehow, I’m here. And that matters.
I glance at him again. He’s watching me with a quiet intensity that doesn’t match the surface conversation. “What?” I ask, too aware of my own voice.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.” I bite back.
His mouth quirks. “You always this annoying?”
“You find me anything but annoying.” I flash a saccharine grin.
Mikey chuckles, then leans back on the stool, his arms folding across his chest. “You’re going to hate my fridge.”
My brows lift. “Why?”
He stands, walks to the fridge, and opens it like he’s revealing a crime scene. I stare. Now thisisexactly what I expected. A few basic containers. Some questionable leftovers. A carton of eggs that looks like it’s been there for a while. Beer. Red Bull. A bottle of something that might be juice but might also be a science experiment. My mouth twitches.
“I told you,” He shrugs.
“I’m not judging,” I reply automatically, and then chuckle, “Actually, I am judging a little.”
Mikey’s grin widens. “Fair.”
He shuts the fridge and leans against it, arms braced, shoulders broad beneath the black T-shirt. The posture looks casual, but his eyes are too alert, too present, like he’s aware of every movement I make.
“Tomorrow’s Monday,” he states the obvious.
“It is,” I confirm.
“What time do you leave?”
“Early.”
He nods. “I’ll be up.”
