Mikey’s gaze is sharp, but there’s something restrained in it too, like he’s trying to speak around a thousand other things. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
My stomach tightens. “I didn’t say I did.”
“I know,” he answers, and his jaw flexes. “But I can feel you pulling away.”
The directness punches right through my carefully constructed calm. I should deny it. I should laugh it off. Instead, my throat goes tight, and the truth slips out before I can stop it. “I made things complicated when you were just trying to keep things simple.”
Mikey’s eyes narrow slightly. “Simple?”
“Yes,” I insist. “This arrangement. The room. The weeknights. It’s practical. It’s helpful. I didn’t mean to make things complicated.” I say it like it’s true. Like I believe it. Like I didn’t kiss him twice and want to do it again.
There it is. The things I won’t admit out loud. Because saying it out loud makes it real. Mikey stares at me for a long beat, andsomething in his expression shifts to hurt maybe, or frustration, or something softer that he doesn’t want me to see.
“Right,” he speaks finally, voice low. “Practical.”
I nod, even though my chest aches. “Exactly.”
Another beat of silence. Then he turns away. “Goodnight, Quinn,” his tone cold, too controlled.
“Goodnight,” I mumble. I close my bedroom door and lean my forehead against it for a second, breathing slowly. My heart is pounding like I’ve done something reckless. Which is ridiculous. All I did was reinforce boundaries. I should feel relieved. I didn’t just shut a door. I locked it. And I’m the one holding the key.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. Not because I’m afraid of Michael. Because I’m afraid of what I want when he’s near. I stare at the ceiling, listening to the apartment. No footsteps. No TV. No laughter. No movement beyond the occasional faint sound of plumbing or the building settling. I knew there was a possibility that spending more time with him would cause my attraction to him to grow. I didn’t think it would happen this quickly. Or that it would start to become something more than physical. I realize that I’m not just attracted to him anymore. That parts already done. This is something else.
I try to picture my life six months from now. A stable apartment. A routine. A commute that doesn’t involve borrowed space and complicated men who look at me like they’re trying not to touch. I try to anchor myself in the idea that this is temporary. That he is temporary. That I can do this without letting it become anything else. Eventually, I fall asleep. And in the morning, I wake up with the same thoughts in my head.
I make coffee without looking toward the hallway. I eat a granola bar standing at the counter. And when Mikey appears, shirt on this time, hair damp, eyes shadowed with sleep, I don’t let myself stare. Because I know exactly what happens when I do.
“Morning.” I smile and place a cup of black coffee in front of him.
“Morning,” he replies as he stares at the offering. He pauses like he wants to say something else. I don’t give him room.
“I’ve got an early meeting,” I toss out, grabbing my bag. “And I’ve got a thing tonight, so I’ll be late.”
Mikey’s gaze hardens for a fraction of a second. Then he nods once, jaw tight. “Okay.”
And I leave. Or escape. I walk down the stairs with my heart beating too fast, my body aching with a want I’m refusing to name, and my mind repeating the same sentence over and over like it’s a spell that can keep me safe:
This is simple.
This is practical.
This is temporary.
Too bad I’ve already proven that’s not true.
Chapter Thirteen
Mikey
Good
Better Than Ezra
I feelit before I understand it. The apartment is quieter, but not the good kind. Not the kind that settles you into yourself. This is absence masquerading as peace, and my body clocks it immediately, like it knows something is wrong before my brain catches up.
Quinn isn’t avoiding me loudly. She’s doing it efficiently. Her shoes are gone when I wake up. The counter is wiped clean, like she’s trying to erase any proof she’d been there at all. Her coffee mug,myextra mug, is rinsed and placed carefully in the drying rack, not abandoned where I left it yesterday. Her bedroom door is closed, bed made so tight it looks untouched. Too untouched. Erased.
I stand in the kitchen longer than necessary, staring at the space she’s been learning how to occupy, and something in my chest tightens hard enough to piss me off. I don’t even know what I’m angry at yet, just that it feels like something important slipped out of my hands while I was pretending I had control andwonder for the thousandth time if I should have just shut the hell up and kissed her again.
