Page 249 of End Game

Not the place where my mail comes.

Not the place I sleep between shifts.

A real one.

One I would miss.

Micah reaches up and cups the back of my neck. “You don't have to solve a career you don't have yet.”

I blink.

“That sounds suspiciously reasonable.”

“Sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do with all my spiraling?”

“Save some for Chicago.”

I laugh.

He leans in and kisses me.

Slow.

Easy.

When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead against mine.

“Go record the song.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Play the show.”

“Okay.”

“Then come home and decide what you want next.”

My throat tightens.

There are approximately seventeen jokes available to me.

Not one of them survives.

So I just nod.

“Okay.”

That night, Micah falls asleep before I do.

He's on his stomach, one arm shoved under the pillow and his other hand resting close enough that I can reach it without moving much.

My phone glows against the blanket.

I've listened to the demo Austin sent six times.