“Because this is mine,” I explain again. “Because I don’t like being watched when I’m not on.”
She turns toward me, fully now. “You don’t seem very ‘on’ tonight.”
“No,” I admit. “I’m not. I don’t have to be here. That’s the point.”
“What about me watching you?” The air shifts. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Do you like it?”
Her question causes my heart to beat a little harder against my ribs, my tongue darting out to swipe against my bottom lip. I stare back at her instead of replying, not sure my answer would be appropriate.
She leans in. Not rushed. Not careless. It’s deliberate, like she’s thought about this. Her breath ghosts over my skin, warm and steady. I feel the pull like gravity, like inevitability. Every instinct in me screams to close the distance. To take what’s being offered. But I’m not sure if she’s just doing that thing where she flirts with me to test me.
My hand lifts. Stops on her cheek, which I cup gently. She leans into it. That’s the problem. “Quinn,” I exhale, low. “If I kiss you again…”
Her breath catches. Mine does too.
“I won’t stop this time.” Her pulse jumps under my thumb. And yeah, I feel that. “We already crossed a line. Twice.”
Her lips part as she releases a breath.
“And it’s getting harder to pretend that didn’t mean something.”
I let go and lean back even further, creating space that feels like a loss. “You’re still figuring this out,” I add, softer now. “New job. New city. New life.” I exhale. “I’m not going to be the thing that complicates that before you even get your footing.”
She stares at me, stunned, not hurt, not angry. Seen.
“Don’t get me wrong, Quinn. I want to kiss you. I want to do so much worse to you.”
Her breath stutters.
“But not like this.” Not fast. Not careless. Not something we pretend doesn’t matter the next day. “I’m not doing halfway with you.” I give a small shake of my head. “And whatever this is, it’s not halfway.”
“You’re saying no.”
“Yes.” Even if it’s the hardest thing I’ve said in a long time.
Her mouth drops open with clarity, and I stand and head down the hall before she can respond, before I change my mind, before control slips through my fingers. Because if I stay there another second, I will kiss her again. Consequences be damned.
Chapter Twelve
Quinn
Stupid Girl
Garbage
I wakeup the next morning with the apartment feeling too quiet and my thoughts too loud. The light is a pale, yellow sliding through the guest room window in a soft wash. For a second, I don’t remember where I am. My brain reaches for the familiar: Dean’s guest room, the smell of Sadie’s shampoo, the faint sound of Dean moving around the kitchen.
Then reality settles in. I’m in Lincoln Park at Michael’s apartment. Exposed brick, open concept, and a hallway that connects my door to his. My stomach tightens. I lie there for a few extra seconds, staring at the ceiling, listening. No coffee machine. No footsteps. No music. No TV. Nothing but complete silence. Which should be comforting. Instead, it feels suspicious. Like the apartment is holding its breath.
I recall the night before and feel my skin flush. The worst part isn’t that he stopped. It’s that I can still feel it. Not his hands, because he barely touched me. Not his mouth, because I remember that. Too well. But themomentitself lingers like heattrapped under my skin, like my body memorized the distance between us and how quickly it disappeared.
I sit up and check my phone. 6:32 a.m. Too early for most humans. Early enough that Mikey is either still asleep or moving around like he did yesterday morning. But there’s nothing.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cool hardwood under my feet and start my routine on autopilot. Brush teeth. Wash face. Pull hair into a knot. Dress in the kind of outfit that makes me look competent even if my insides are doing a slow, confused spiral. A blouse and black slacks. A pair of comfortable flats. My standard work armor.
I step into the hallway and pause, listening again. Still quiet. I walk toward the kitchen. I’ve come to realize the open space looks different in daylight. It’s warm, almost inviting. The exposed brick holds the morning light like it was designed to. The couch looks ridiculously comfortable, like it’s waiting for me to curl into it and forget what day it is.
I don’t. I head straight for the kitchen, pull my laptop out of my bag, and set it on the island as if I’m already at work. As if I can turn this apartment into a neutral place by making it practical.
