Page 182 of Key of Kink

My gaze drifted towards the sloping ceiling. Music had always been the one place where thoughts arranged themselves clearly, in patterns, in structure. And without meaning to, my mind began assembling fragments. Not lyrics or even a melody, not at that point, but simply an idea, a repeating pattern, building into something.

My fingers twitched against the mattress as if they were already resting on piano keys.

Quinn shifted again, his knee brushing mine, and without waking, he moved closer, the movement natural and without hesitation.

I exhaled. For weeks I’d been trying to understand what Quinn was doing to my life, and lying there in the quietness of his room, listening to him breathe, the truth finally became clear.

He wasn’t changing my life.

He was becoming part of it.

I closed my eyes, letting the rhythm of his breathing pull me into sleep. My last waking thought was of him.

I want him to stay.

I opened my eyes and gazed at an unfamiliar ceiling.

Quinn’s room.

Then the warmth at my side shifted. Quinn was still asleep beneath the duvet. He’d rolled onto his back at some point during the night, his hair a mess against the pillow. The morning light softened everything—his face, the line of his mouth, the slow rhythm of his breathing.

For a moment I simply watched him. It was a peaceful way to wake up. Eventually I slipped carefully out of the bed. Quinn made a small protesting sound but didn’t open his eyes. I found my clothes where I’d left them on the chair and pulled on my T-shirt and jeans.

The house was silent when I stepped out of the room. I moved quietly down the narrow staircase, then down the rest of the stairs towards the kitchen. The room still smelled faintly of last night’s cooking. Someone had left a mug by the sink and a half-open packet of biscuits on the worktop.

I filled the kettle and set it to boil. While I waited, I found a pen and a scrap of paper near the fridge. The musical idea that had been forming during the night returned almost immediately. My fingers tapped lightly against the paper as I wrote down a few chord notes. C major. Then a shift. Then back again. The pattern felt… right.

By the time I’d made the tea, I had a clearer idea. I stuffed the paper into the pocket of my jeans, then picked up the two mugs and headed back upstairs.

Quinn had rolled onto his side again, the duvet twisted around his waist, one bare foot sticking out from beneath the covers.

I set the mugs down on the small bedside table. For a moment I considered letting him sleep. Instead, I brushed my fingers through his hair.

“Quinn.”

He groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow.

“Morning.”

One eye opened, and he sniffed. “You made tea,” he mumbled.

“I did.”

He pushed himself up onto one elbow, blinking at the mug I held out to him.

“You’re bringing me tea in bed,” he said.

“Yes.”

Quinn stared at me, and a slow, delighted smile broke out. “Well, this is a development.” He took the proffered mug.

I sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought it might be appreciated.”

“Oh, it definitely is.” He took a sip, then squinted at me over the rim of the mug. “Should I be worried about this sudden generosity?”

“Why would you be worried?”

“Because usually when someone is this nice to me it means they’re about to ask for something.”