I blink. “You don’t have to be.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I have to go to the studio anyway.” But the way he says it, steady, uncomplicated, makes it feel like he’s already decided.
The silence returns, but it isn’t empty. It’s full of things neither of us is saying. Full of the fact that I’m here now. In his space. In his orbit. Mikey pushes off the fridge. “Let me show you where things are.” He strolls out of the kitchen. “Bathroom is down that hall. Extra towels in the linen closet. Wi-Fi password is on the fridge.” He pauses. “And you can lock your door if you want.”
My brow furrows. “I’m guessing that won’t be necessary.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods once like he heard something in my voice that I didn’t mean to reveal. “Goodnight, Quinn.”
“Goodnight, Michael. Thanks for letting me crash here.” I head into the guest room and close the door behind me. The room is quiet but my body doesn’t relax. Because even though there are walls between us, I can still feel him in the next room like a presence I’m not used to having this close. Like the apartment itself is aware that we’re both here.
I change into sleep clothes slowly, methodically. Brush my teeth. Wash my face. Go through the motions like routine will keep me anchored. When I slide under the covers, I stare at the ceiling, listening. There’s no music. No TV. No late-night chaos. Just stillness.
And somewhere down the hall, I hear the faintest sound of movement; Mikey shifting in his bed, or turning off a light, or simply existing behind a door.
I close my eyes and force my breathing to steady. It’s just a room. It’s just a hallway. It’s just a man I’ve already kissed and shouldn’t be thinking about. My mind repeats the logic. My body doesn’t care.
Morning comes like a slow betrayal. Soft light filters through the window, pale gold against the brick outside. I wake to the sound of movement in the kitchen. Quiet, domestic sounds. A mug set down. A drawer opening and closing. The faint hiss of a coffee machine.
My stomach flips again, because my brain is still waking up and my body is already aware of him. I sit up, push hair out of my face, and step into the hallway. The apartment feels different in daylight. Warmer. Softer. Less like a rockstar’s bachelor pad and more like a home someone could actually settle into.
And then I spot him standing at the kitchen island shirtless, hair rumpled, jeans sitting low on his hips in a way that shouldbe illegal before seven a.m. His tattoos look darker against his skin in the morning light. He moves without thinking, comfortable in his own space, and there’s something about that ease that hits me harder than any stage persona ever has. Because this is real.
He turns as if he felt my gaze. His eyes finding mine, and for a moment the air tightens. “Hey,” he clears his throat, voice rough with sleep. “Morning.”
My throat goes dry. “Morning.”
He reaches for a mug, then hesitates. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” I manage, because I’m not about to reject caffeine.
He pours a second mug, pours in the exact amount of cream I like, and slides it across the island toward me. Our fingers almost brush when I pick it up. Almost. The near-contact sends a stupid, unnecessary spark straight through me. We both feel it. I know we do. But neither one of us acknowledges it. I wrap both hands around the mug like it’s going to keep me from doing something impulsive, like staring.
Mikey shifts his weight, glancing down at himself like he’s suddenly aware of the fact that he’s half-dressed in front of me. A flush creeps up his neck, faint but real.
“You’re-,” he starts, then stops.
“Tired?” I offer, because I’m trying to be helpful and also trying not to sayyou’re devastatingly attractive when you’re not trying to be.
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. That too.”
I take a sip of coffee and it’s good; strong, not burnt, exactly how I like it. Another detail that shouldn’t matter. But it does.
“What do you want to do about food?” I nod toward the fridge.
Mikey glances at it like it personally offended him. “I have food. Sort of.”
I arch a brow.
He grins. “Okay, I have beverages.”
“Boy beverages,” I tease.
“Don’t start with ‘boy touches’ again,” he warns, but his eyes are smiling.
I lean against the island, allowing myself a fraction of ease. “I’m just saying, it’s very on-brand.”
He makes a face. “I have a brand?”
