“Oh, he did,” Mikey assures me. “Early days. Pre-fame. He swears it was poetic.”
I shake my head, amused, and something loosens inside me. This is the part of Mikey people probably don’t get to see because he’s always performing. The humor. The ease. The realness.
I study him again without meaning to. His forearm muscles shift when he lifts his chopsticks. The short beard growing along his jaw. His eyes are even lighter than I remember; warm brown with gold flecks when the light hits them. He catches me looking and stills, just a fraction. “What?”
I shake my head quickly. “Nothing.”
Mikey’s gaze narrows in mock suspicion. “That’s a lie.”
I roll my eyes. “I was thinking you look different.”
He lifts a brow. “Different good or different bad?”
“Different,” I search for the word. “Present.”
His expression changes, subtle but quick. “I don’t know what that means,” he frowns, but his voice is lighter than his eyes.
“It just means you’re… here.” I explain gently.
Mikey’s throat works like he swallows something. He glances toward the staircase, then back at me. “Maybe I’m tired of performing.”
“Okay.” I let it sit there. It shouldn’t matter to me, but it does.
We drift into conversation about apartments naturally, like it’s a safe topic neither of us can ruin. “I want to be close to work,” I explain. “I don’t need anything big. I just want it to feel like mine.”
Mikey nods, thoughtful. “You want quiet, but not isolated.”
I blink, surprised. “Yes.”
He shrugs like it’s obvious. “I know the city. I can help.”
“You’re offering to help because you’re a helpful person, or because you have ulterior motives?” I can’t help but tease him just a little.
“We could make out for a few minutes if you think that helps?” Mikey’s grin turns flirty, but after a beat, he reins it back in, his tone more serious. “I’m offering to help because I live in the city and I’d rather you not end up in some overpriced shoebox with a broken elevator and haunted plumbing.”
“Haunted plumbing?”
Mikey leans back on his stool. “Listen, Chicago has personality.”
“Nothing can beat New York,” I chuff.
“New York has rage,” he corrects, with a shake of his head. “Chicago has charm.”
I smile. “Debatable.”
“I’ll fight you on this one,” he points a chopstick at me, and there it is, the teasing edge, but softer than before. Less pushy. More inviting.
Sadie appears at the top of the stairs, hair messy, cheeks flushed, Dean behind her like a shadow. She pauses when she sees us at the island. Her gaze flicks between Mikey and me, and her smile turns knowing. “Oh.”
Mikey groans. “Don’t.”
Sadie laughs, padding down the stairs. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were absolutely going to say something,” Mikey accuses.
Dean steps into the kitchen, arm sliding around Sadie’s waist like it belongs there. His eyes take in the food with approval. “Good call on Thai.”
Sadie kisses Dean’s cheek, then turns to me. “You good? Did you find your room okay?”
