“That’s reassuring,” I manage.
Sadie squeezes my hand. “And he’ll mostly be at the studio.”
Right. That should make this easier. The sentence that sounds like reassurance but carries its own kind of warning. My lips press together. “Right.”
Dean pulls up to the curb, and I crane my neck to look out the window. The building is exactly what Mikey described; an older brick brownstone with narrow stairs leading to the top-floor unit. The kind of place that has character baked into it. The kind of place you can imagine someone coming home to after a long day and actually exhaling. My heart does a small, irritating flip.
“Here we are,” Dean declares, killing the engine.
The night air is crisp when we step onto the sidewalk, cooler than I expect for the end of September. The street is quiet, trees lining the curb in neat, leafy rows. Somewhere down the block,someone’s dog barks once and then stops. It’s so normal. So calm and safe.
We carry my things up the stairs in two trips. Dean takes the heavy box like it’s nothing, Sadie wrestles with the garment bags, and I cling to my tote and my laptop like it’s an organ I can’t live without.
When we reach the top landing, Mikey opens the door like he was waiting behind it. My brain trips over the memory before I can stop it. The storm. How good his mouth felt. How I pulled away even though I definitely didn’t want to. Yeah, this is a terrible idea.
He’s not dressed up. No performance. Just a black T-shirt clinging lightly to his chest, worn jeans, bare feet. His hair is damp around the edges like he showered recently, and his eyes, those warm brown eyes with the subtle golden flecks, take me in fast, precise, and slightly too intense. Then he softens, the edge easing out of him as he steps aside. “Hey,” he pulls the door wider as he welcomes me. “Come on in.”
I do. And I stop. Because Mikey’s apartment is not what I expect. The space opens up in one wide breath. It’s open concept with exposed brick and high ceilings with beams that give the place a loft-like warmth.
The brick walls glow faintly under softer lighting, making everything feel grounded instead of stark. Big windows run along the far wall, and beyond them the city skyline is just starting to twinkle, distant enough to feel like atmosphere rather than being a part of it.
A massive wraparound sectional dominates the living room area, the kind that looks dangerously comfortable. It curves around a low coffee table with a few faint scuffs and rings like real life has happened here. There’s a huge flat screen mounted on the wall, flanked by speakers that look expensive enough to make me wince.
And then I see it, the proof that this is, in fact, Mikey’s place. A drum pad with some sticks lay on a small stool, and a PlayStation console is tucked neatly beside the TV. Controllers are lined up like they’ve been placed there with care. A small pile of gaming cases stacked on a shelf. The room is a darker palette with charcoal, deep navy, and warm leather tones. Masculine, but not cold. Like he likes shadows, but not emptiness.
The air smells faintly like coffee and something clean, soap maybe, and the slightest bite of something sharper I can’t place. Like the ocean? Citrus and clean, very much a Mikey scent.
He shifts beside me, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. “It’s not fancy.”
“It’s really nice,” I admit honestly, because it feels like him.
Dean makes a sound of agreement. “He undersells it on purpose so no one expects anything from him.”
Mikey shoots him a look. “You’re still here, I see.”
Dean grins like he enjoys being difficult. “Unfortunately.”
Sadie laughs, and for a moment everything is normal. Like this is just another Sunday night and not the beginning of something that might rearrange my entire emotional landscape.
We carry my things down the hallway to the spare room. The room is clean and simple. It has neutral walls, a neatly made bed with dark bedding, a dresser, and a desk by the window. The closet has been cleared out entirely. No random boxes. No extra junk. He prepared for this. I swallow hard as I set my tote down on the bed.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I turn to Mikey, unable to keep the quiet edge out of my voice. He made room for me, and it shouldn’t matter, but it does.
Mikey stands in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “It wasn’t hard.”
“I really appreciate this.” My nerves spiking knowing we’ll be alone in a few minutes. His gaze holds mine for a beat too long,and something subtle shifts, like he wants to say something that isn’t a joke, isn’t deflection, isn’t easy, but he doesn’t.
Sadie squeezes my shoulder and leans in close. “Text me if you need anything. Seriously.”
“I will.”
Dean hovers at the doorway like he wants to say something protective, but he doesn’t. He just nods once, solid and steady. “You’re good here.” That should make me feel calmer. Instead, I feel my awareness sharpen. Because yes, I’m good here. And Mikey is good here too.
We walk them back down the hallway, and Sadie lingers near the kitchen island, her eyes darting between Mikey and me like she’s trying to read a story she suspects is coming. Dean’s hand is at her waist, possessive in a way that seems new and earned. Like he’s done pretending he can love her halfway.
“We’re gonna go,” Sadie announces, drawing the words out like she’s giving us time to object.
Mikey nods once. “Text me when you’re home.”
