I pick up my wine again and take a small sip, trying to reset my system. “Thank you.”
Mikey’s brow lifts. “For what?”
“For coming,” I explain. “For not making fun of me.”
His expression shifts, something protective and quiet settling there. “I would never.”
“But you absolutely could,” I counter, my voice gentle.
He smiles. “Okay. Maybe later. When the lights are on and you’re not adorable in candlelight.”
My cheeks warm. “I’m not adorable.”
“You are,” he assures me with a nod, like it’s a fact he can’t help acknowledging. The storm fades into background noise. The candles burn lower. And somewhere between shared food and a dark house and the way Mikey showed up without asking, and stepping back when I asked, I realize something terrifying; he’s not just attractive, he’s safe. And wanting him, wanting someone like him, is definitely dangerous.
I didn’t come to Chicago to fall for Michael Sarris. But somewhere between thunder and candlelight, looking for apartments, and eating food he keeps bringing me, I can feel the universe mocking me.
And the worst part? I’m not sure I care.
Chapter Nine
Mikey
Self Esteem
The Offspring
The studio humsthe way it always does when we’re in the early stages of something new. It’s low and steady, like a living thing that hasn’t decided what it wants to become yet. There’s no crowd noise, no roar to hide behind. Just cables, amps, the faint whir of equipment warming up, and the familiar weight of possibility settling into place.
Luc built this place to be soundproof, but somehow the energy still leaks through the walls. Maybe that’s not acoustics though, maybe it’s just us. I sit behind my kit, sticks resting loosely across my palms, tapping them together out of habit. One. Two. Three. Not a song. Just grounding. This is where my brain finds some peace.
Luc paces the control room, a beer in hand, the glass of the bottle catching the light every time he gestures too hard. He’s got that look on his face; the one that says he’s already ten steps ahead of the rest of us and mildly annoyed we aren’t there yet.Producer Luc is different than frontman Luc. Less charm and way more obsession.
Dean is stretched out on the couch with his guitar balanced across his lap, fingers absently picking through a progression he’s clearly not sold on. He’s relaxed in a way that still catches me off guard sometimes. There was a time when Dean never relaxed, when tension lived in his shoulders and never quite left. Sadie changed that. Or maybe she just gave him permission to stop bracing for impact.
Hayden sits on a stool near the window, bass propped against his thigh, phone in his hand. He scrolls, pauses, scrolls again. Too distracted. Too quiet. This is new. Hayden’s always been the steady one. The constant. The guy who shows up, locks in, and doesn’t waver. Today, though, he feels like he’s elsewhere. Like he’s only half in the room. I clock it without comment. Some things you don’t call out unless you’re ready to deal with the answer.
“You planning on actually playing today?” Dean asks without looking up. “Or are you just here to look pretty?”
I snort. “I’m the drummer. I don’t get credit for pretty.”
“Tragic,” he deadpans. “How will your ego ever survive?”
Luc’s voice crackles through the talkback. “Can we at least pretend to be professionals for the first hour?”
“No,” Dean and I retort together. Hayden’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t lift his eyes from his phone.
We run a few loose passes, nothing serious yet. Just feeling around the edges of what this next song might become. I lock in easily, muscle memory taking over. Kick. Snare. Hi-hat. The rhythm settles into my body like it always does, steadying everything else. This is where I’m useful. This is where I don’t have to think about where I stand.
When we break, Luc disappears back into the control room to argue with the producer about tempo, Dean heads for the fridge,and Hayden drifts toward the hallway, phone already back in his hand.
“You good?” I check, keeping it casual.
He pauses, glances back at me, his brow furrowing before he answers. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
His reply is too quick. Too automatic. And then he’s gone. I frown, but Dean interrupts before I can think too hard about it. He glances at the bottle of water I’m holding. “You’re suspiciously hydrated today.”
“Trying something new,” I reply, twisting the cap.
