I open the fridge and stare at it, mostly out of stubborn curiosity. Beer. Red Bull. Leftovers from the food I cooked last night. Not enough food for someone who is awake, functioning, and presumably alive. I shut it.
I’m halfway through making myself a piece of toast from the bread I found in the back of a cabinet when I hear movement down the hall; footsteps, low and measured, followed by the soft click of a door opening. My spine straightens automatically. I hate that it does that.
Mikey appears in the hallway, dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans, hair damp at the edges like he showered fast. He looks awake in the way musicians look awake. His eyes are alert,body moving with purpose, but something in his face still half-untethered. Like he didn’t sleep well either.
He stops when he sees me. The moment stretches before he finally speaks. “Morning,” he greets me, voice rough.
“Morning,” I reply, too quick.
His eyes flick to my laptop on the counter, then back to my face. A faint furrow appears between his brows. “You’re up early.”
“I have to be,” I explain. “Lots to finish catching up on.”
He nods and shrugs. “Right.” He walks past me toward the coffee machine, movements controlled. He doesn’t brush against me. Doesn’t let himself. He keeps a careful distance that feels like a statement.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye and force myself not to overthink it.Don’t.That’s what he said last night. Not as a joke. Not teasing. Not playful. Firm and in control. I swallow and focus on my toast, chewing even though my mouth is dry.
Mikey starts the coffee machine and doesn’t offer me a cup. It shouldn’t matter. It still does. His silence sits heavy between us, and in it I replay the moment on the couch like my brain is trying to solve a puzzle.
I leaned in. He stopped me. He said:If I kiss you again, I won’t stop.That line, more than anything, has been looping in my head since last night. And the worst part? I know he meant it. Because it’s dangerous. Because I want to know what it feels like when he doesn’t stop.
I have a new job. A new city. A life in transition. All things I’m thrilled about. Staying here in his apartment, here in the city, has been a vast improvement in my every day life. I’m definitely not as exhausted now that I don’t have to commute two hours a day. Mikey is a complication with a heartbeat. And I already let it get further than I planned.
I set my toast down and clear my throat. “I’m sorry about last night.”
He glances at me. “Okay.”
I snap my gaze up to lock with his. “I can go back to Dean’s. I don’t want to make you feel like you have to tip-toe around me in your own home.” It’s not what I want. Not by a long shot. But I also don’t want to make things any harder on him.
“Let’s not make it weird.” He shifts his weight to lean against the counter. “You don’t need to go. I understand I can be irresistible.” He cocks a sly grin my way in an attempt to detract and simplify what happened.
“Yeah, that’s what it was.” I smile back at him, even though inside I’m dying. He’s joking. I’m not. It’s fine. This is good. I grab my bag, shove my laptop inside, and head for the door. My hand is on the knob when Mikey speaks again.
“Quinn.”
I pause. I don’t look at him. I don’t trust my face to stay neutral if I do. “Yeah?”
A beat of silence, then, “Have a good day.”
The words are quiet. Simple. Not flirtatious. But they do something to my chest anyway. “You too,” I call over my shoulder, and I walk through the door before my voice can betray me.
The stairwell is cool and smells faintly like old brick and someone’s laundry detergent. I take the steps quickly, like distance will keep my body from remembering what it wanted last night. Outside, the morning air bites lightly, crisp and clean. I breathe it in until my lungs feel steadier.
This is fine. I can handle this. I can handle attraction. I’ve handled it before. What I don’t handle well is the kind of attraction that feels like it’s reaching for something deeper. I know better. Damn libido and this damn dry spell I’ve been in for months. I blame it on that.
Work helps. Work is measurable. Work is logic and structure and competence. Work is a place where my brain can focus on tasks instead of the way Mikey looked at me like he was holding himself back by force.
By noon, I’m in the rhythm of the day answering emails, sitting through meetings, trying to memorize names and protocols and the unspoken politics of a new environment. My phone buzzes. It’s Sadie. I stare at her name on the screen for a second longer than necessary. Then I answer.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Her voice bright. “How’s it going at Mikey’s?”
I hesitate. This is the moment where I could tell the truth. Not everything. Just enough. Something like:I threw myself at him last night. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t stop thinking about him.
But that honesty would invite questions. Concern. Advice. Emotional involvement. And I’m not ready for any of that.
“It’s fine.” That’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. “Quiet. The apartment is really nice. Mikey is surprisingly normal.”
