And suddenly, my apartment doesn’t feel like neutral ground anymore.
“Morning.” Her lips lift in a small, shy smile.
“Morning,” I clear my throat when it comes out rougher than I intend.
She steps into the kitchen, and the air shifts. I notice everything. The way she pauses like she’s gauging my mood. The way she takes up space carefully, like she doesn’t want to intrude. I hate that. I don’t want her to feel like that.
Coffee finishes brewing with a soft beep. I pour her a mug without asking because I remember how she takes it, and that realization lands sharp and unwelcome. I slide it across the counter. Our fingers almost touch. Almost. Our eyes hold for the briefest moment instead before she slides the mug toward her.
“Thanks.” She flashes me a grateful smile, wrapping both hands around the mug like it’s grounding her. We stand there, sipping coffee in silence that isn’t exactly awkward, but isn’t easy either. It’s loaded. Quiet in a way that feels like the space right before a note lands. I realize it’s the first time we’ve been truly alone since the thunderstorm.
“This okay?” she asks after a beat. “Me being here?”
The question is casual. Thoughtful. And it hits like a weight. “Yeah,” I reassure immediately. Probably too fast and I want to slap myself. “It’s fine.”
She studies my face. “You sure?”
I nod once. “I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.”
Her shoulders relax just a fraction. “I really appreciate this. I know it’s a lot.”
What she means isI’m sorry if this is uncomfortable.It’s not at all, and it aggravates me that she keeps thinking it is. I finish my coffee and set the mug down harder than necessary. “Are you going to be late?”
She smiles, small and genuine. “Yeah, I need to get ready.” And just like that, she walks back down the hall, leaving behind the faint scent of whatever it is she wears and something else that feels like trouble. I follow behind a few minutes later, go into my bedroom to throw on a shirt, slide on some shoes, and then grab my keys and leave before I do something stupid, like go join her in the shower.
The studio feels different today. Not wrong. Just sharper around the edges. I sit behind my kit and run through warm-ups automatically, sticks tapping against drumheads in patterns I’ve played a thousand times. Luc paces. Dean tunes. Hayden watches everything like he always does.
“Loosen it up,” the producer calls through the talkback. “Let it breathe.”
I’d like to loosen him up, but I just grit my teeth and play tighter. Again.
“Still clamped,” Luc offering his thoughts. “You’re holding back.”
I bristle. “I’m not.”
Hayden’s gaze flicks to me. Too perceptive. “You are.”
I shoot him a look. “You want to take over?”
He shrugs. “You got this.” That’s the problem. I don’t.
We break for lunch, and I don’t linger. I don’t joke. I don’t reach for my phone even though I feel the pull. I don’t want to think about Quinn sitting at my kitchen table or moving throughmy space like she belongs there. Because part of me already thinks she does.
When I get home, the apartment feels different. Something warm and not at all familiar and I realize it’s food cooking. Quinn stands at the stove, sleeves pushed up, stirring something that smells like garlic and comfort. She turns when she hears the door.
“Hey,” she calls out. “I hope this is okay. I thought making dinner would be nice.”
The sight of her there, domestic, unguarded, hits me right in the chest. “Yeah,” I manage. “That’s amazing.”
We eat together, sitting at opposite ends of the island like we’re trying not to acknowledge how close that still is. Conversation drifts easily; work, the city, the weirdness of starting something new. She laughs at something I say, and the sound settles into my chest like it belongs there, and the urge to kiss her again slams into me. This is a problem.
Later, we end up on the couch without discussing it. We’re on opposites ends, almost making it too obvious how much we’re tryingnotto be too close. The TV is on but neither of us is really watching.
“Can I ask you something?” Her voice soft and tentative.
I nod. “Of course.”
“Why don’t you bring people here?” The question is her genuine curiosity. Not accusatory. Still, it tightens something in my chest.
