She hums thoughtfully. “You and Mikey good?”
The question hits when I know it shouldn’t. “Yep. Still good.”
Another pause. I can practically hear her smile through the phone. “Just checking.”
I change the subject quickly, asking her what she has planned for the week, about Dean, about anything else. When we hang up, I keep walking. And that’s when I see it. A small sign in the window.
Studio Apartment — Available Now
I stop without meaning to. The place isn’t fancy. It’s a standard brick building with big front windows. A coffee shop on the corner. Close to the train. Walking distance to my office.It’s practical, and appears safe. And possibly mine? Before I can overthink it, I push the door open.
The apartment is on the third floor and it’s small but bright. Sunlight spills across hardwood floors. A narrow kitchen. Enough space for a couch, a table, bookshelves. I stand in the middle of the room imagining quiet mornings. My own routine. My own space.
No blurred lines. No more mornings like today. No falling asleep in his arms and waking up to wanting more. No wondering if and when the gorgeous man I’m living with will kiss me again. The thought twist in my gut. Not relief. Not even close.
The leasing agent talks numbers. Availability. Move-in dates. I nod along, barely listening. When I leave, a card sits tucked into my pocket, I tell myself it’s just information. Nothing more.
When I get back to Mikey’s place that evening, the hallway smells like something warm and savory. I pause outside the door, surprised. I step inside and Mikey looks up from the stove. “You’re home.”
There’s something about the way he says it, simple and genuine, that makes my pulse pick up a few notches. Like I belong here. Like it’s already been decided. “You cooked?”
He shrugs, stirring something in a pan, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Believe it or not, I do possess more skills than just banging a pair of sticks.”
The apartment feels softer tonight. Music low in the background. Lights dimmed. Plates already set on the table. He moves around the kitchen with easy confidence, tasting sauce, adjusting heat, completely at home. I lean against the counter, watching. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.” The same words I used last night. He smiles slightly without looking at me. “I wanted to. We broke from the studio early today.”
We eat at the small table, talking about nothing important. Work stories. Studio chaos. Something funny Luc said. His laugh comes easier tonight. Mine does too. The weird energy from the morning lingers. But it’s not awkward, just, unfinished.
At one point our knees bump beneath the table and neither of us moves away. This feels easy. Too easy. And the card in my pocket suddenly feels heavier. I should tell him. I almost do. The words sit right there, ready.I looked at the perfect apartment today.And I already know why I don’t say them. Because if I say them, this ends. Or, at the very least, it changes. And I don’t like either of those outcomes.
But he’s smiling at something I said, relaxed and happy in a way that makes the room feel safe. The words die before they reach my mouth. Not tonight. Tonight feels too good to complicate.
So, I smile back, reaching for my glass. And quietly, carefully, I decide to keep that piece of information to myself. For now. Before I do something I can’t take back.
Chapter Nineteen
Mikey
Shimmer
Fuel
Morning feelsdifferent than they used to. I wake before my alarm, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft hum of the city outside the windows. The apartment smells faintly like the stir-fry I made last night and whatever shampoo Quinn uses.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and run a hand through my hair, smiling to myself without really knowing why. I amble out of my bedroom and down the hall. Her mug sits in the sink. Her shoes by the door. The blanket from the couch sits half-folded where we left it yesterday morning. Little signs she exists here.
I move through the kitchen automatically, starting coffee, leaning against the counter while it brews. My eyes drift toward the couch again. I don’t remember the last time waking up felt this easy, this good. The thought sits with me longer than it should.
I leave before Quinn gets up. Not because I’m avoiding her, but because we’re starting a new track today and I actually feelgood about it. Ideas have been bouncing around in my head since yesterday, rhythms tapping against my ribs like they’re impatient to get out.
The studio is loud before I even walk in. Luc’s voice cuts through the noise, Dean arguing with the producer about guitar tone, someone testing levels through the monitors. Cables snake across the floor. Empty beer bottles and coffee cups everywhere. Normal chaos. Familiar enough that my body relaxes the second I step inside.
I drop my bag near my kit and spin a stick between my fingers, settling into place. The first run-through starts rough. We’re still finding the shape of the song. Something about it feels crowded, like too much is happening too soon.
I listen harder the second time. There it is. The beginning doesn’t breathe. We stop halfway through and I lean forward, tapping the rim of the snare thoughtfully. “What if we stripped the intro back?” I glance toward the booth, energy buzzing under my skin. “Let it breathe for a second before everything kicks in. Drums carry it alone for a few bars, build tension, then everyone drops in.”
The producer pauses, considering. And I can see it; that moment where he’s actually thinking about it. Luc doesn’t even hesitate with a response. “We’ve already got the arrangement locked.” He waves a hand like he’s swatting away a fly. “Just keep the groove steady, man. We don’t need to reinvent it.”
