20. 20
Control - Halsey
I ’m tucked in. Properly.
The doona is pulled up to my collarbone, my body gently folded between layers of pillows and throws, like someone took the time to wrap me in. It’s warm beneath the covers. Too warm, but not uncomfortably so.
Just enough to make me feel… cocooned. Protected.
Each pillow pressed against my sides feels intentional, as if someone placed them there to stop the world from getting in.
Or maybe to stop me from falling apart again.
The ache behind my eyes is dull but persistent, a reminder of the tears that have now dried.
They’ve left behind a tightness on my cheeks and crusted edges on my lashes.
I swipe at them, blinking as the room slowly comes into focus.
There’s no way I did this. No way I climbed into bed and tucked myself in so neatly. Which means—
Michael.
My heart lurches. He was here. That much I remember—barely, but enough. My stomach twists at the memory of his voice. The steadiness in it. The way he said my name when I couldn’t bring myself to answer. The fact that he actually came, without hesitation, and stayed.
Is he still here?
I glance around, but the bedroom is empty. I shift to sit upright, brushing the throw from my chest, and it’s only now I realise how heavy my limbs feel. Not exhausted, but… wrung out.
I’m still wearing the same clothes, though my shirt’s creased now, and the neckline is stretched, probably from where I must’ve curled into it. I swing my legs off the bed, my feet brushing the timber floor, and sit there for a second.
Breathing. Grounding. Bracing.
It’s almost peaceful in the room, apart from the low buzz of noise somewhere in the house. It’s faint but unmistakable. A deep, familiar voice.
I pad down the hallway, towards the lounge, and as I round the corner, I freeze. Four bags of cat food are spread out across the bench. Bright colours. Large labels. Cartoon cats grinning at me with overzealous energy. Four bowls also line the floor, each containing a pile of kibble.
All untouched.
“What the hell is all this?” Movement catches my attention, and I glance over to see Michael mid-crouch as he puts the cat down.
I hadn’t even realised he was in the room.
His brows lift as he straightens, a smudge of grease marking his sleeve, the collar of his navy work shirt creased.
He runs a hand across the back of his neck and shrugs. “Uh… It’s food. For the kitten.”
“Yes, I can see that. But why…?”
“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.
I couldn’t find her stuff, and she kept meowing, so I figured she was hungry.
I downloaded this pet store app, and it had, like, a hundred brands of food.
I panicked and picked the first four with five-star reviews.
” He gestures to the scene in front of us like he already knows how ridiculous it is.
But he also looks… sheepish. Not in an obnoxious way.
Just a little too earnest for someone who clearly doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. I don’t mean to stare, but I do.
He looks so out of place in my house. Freakishly tall, broad, covered in oil and dressed in work gear—and yet, for some stupid reason, the sight of him makes something in my chest shift.
“You do realise these are for adult cats, right?”
He glances at the labels, squinting. “Well, fuck. That explains why she didn’t want any of it.”
I glance at the bowls. Four of them, each carefully portioned out, untouched on the floor. “She didn’t even want to taste it?”
He shakes his head. “Not even a sniff.”
With a sigh, I kneel down and open the cupboard beneath the bench, pulling out a storage tub filled with her things. The moment I open the container, the cat appears—trotting with her tail high and hopeful eyes.
“Everything’s in here. I keep it organised so I don’t lose anything.”
He watches me quietly as I scoop her actual kibble into a clean bowl. I set it on the ground, and she immediately starts eating, purring with satisfaction.
“Well,” he mutters, “that’s just great.”
“You’ve never owned a pet before, have you?” Not that I’m one to talk. I guess we’re both new to… whatever this is.
“Never. Always wanted a dog growing up, though. One of those big ones you could take camping or out on the farm. But cats…” He glances at the kitten, then back at me, and the dimpled edge of his mouth tilts upward. “They’re alright. I guess.”
I study him for a moment. The way he folds his arms, shifts his weight onto one leg, eyes still flicking back to the cat with something close to hesitation.
“Well,” I say, softer now, “technically, you adopted her. So, she’s yours.”
His brow creases slightly, and I watch him process that. “Huh. I never thought of it that way.” The room falls quiet except for the sound of the kitten crunching happily on her food. Michael leans back against the counter, arms still folded, gaze moving between me and her.
He clears his throat. “Did you… want to talk about earlier?”
I knew he’d bring it up. Of course he would.
You don’t walk in on someone mid-panic attack and pretend it didn’t happen.
Still, knowing it was coming doesn’t make it feel any less awkward.
The idea of him seeing me like that should make me burn with embarrassment, but weirdly… it doesn’t. “No. Not really.”
“Not really, or just no?”
He waits, watching me, and I sigh. “Not yet, Michael.”
He nods once. “Whatever happened… whatever caused it, just know you’ve got a friend. If you ever need to get something off your chest.”
I narrow my eyes, taking him in. The way his arms are crossed makes his biceps strain against the fabric. I have to look away before my brain drifts somewhere it shouldn’t. “Thanks. And… for showing up.”
“Wouldn’t have stayed away, even if you told me to.” The way he says it makes something in me shift, though I’m not sure I like the feeling. “I want you to know you can talk to me,” he adds. “I’ve been told I’m a great listener.”
“By who? Other women?” The words are out before I can catch them. I freeze, mentally cursing myself six ways to Sunday. Why the fuck would I say that? Out loud? To him?
And worse—why is my brain instantly conjuring up images of him with other women? Smirking at them the way he smirks at me. The thought twists in my stomach, and I hate that it does. God, it makes me hate him even more. I have no business going there. None.
“Well, uh, yes. But not in the way you think. More from my family and friends.”
“Right.” Duh, Zoe.
I fidget with the hem of my shirt, eyes darting anywhere but at him. God, if the floor could just open up and swallow me whole, that’d be great. He must sense my unravelling, because instead of pressing me further, his attention shifts to the kitten. “You should probably give her a name.”
And that’s what we spend the next five or so minutes doing.
Throwing names around—or rather, he does, and I shoot them all down.
I don’t exactly mind, though. It steers him away from the mess of what just happened.
And if I’m being honest, I don’t mind his presence.
Something about the way he fills this small space keeps me tethered when I should be falling apart.
“Misty?”
“No.”
“Dot?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Princess Sparklepaws?”
I stare at him. “What the fuck, Michael? Sparklepaws? Are you twelve?”
My horrified retort earns a laugh out of him, and the sound is low. He leans forward as he does, and I notice something catching the light inside his mouth. My brain takes a second to register what it is.
Oh. My. God. Is that a tongue piercing?
Heat prickles the back of my neck before my thoughts take a sharp, dangerous turn into territory they have absolutely no business wandering into.
I clear my throat, hard, forcing my focus back on the cat, like that will erase the image forming in my head.
Seriously, what is wrong with me? Am I ovulating or something?
This is absolutely uncalled for. I’ve never seen a man with a tongue piercing before, and my brain clearly doesn’t know how to behave about it.
Nope. Not thinking about it. Not now. Not ever.
He smirks, clearly unaware that I’m standing here trying not to combust. Asshole. “What? She looks like a Sparklepaws.”
“She does not.”
“Fine. Pickles?”
“Do you even hear yourself right now?”
“Alright,” he says, pretending to think hard. “Chair.”
“Chair?”
“Well, you’ve given me nothing to fucking work with, so…
” He shrugs, and his lips twitch. I roll my eyes, but he just keeps going, firing off random words until he suddenly pauses, tilting his head at her.
“You know… her fur’s kinda like your hair.
Just lighter. And she’s got those little freckles on her nose. She’s basically a mini you.”
I groan. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. I’d say it’s fate.”
I don’t bother answering, and he hums like he’s deep in thought. “Okay. New idea. What about… Sprinkles?”
“Sprinkles?” I raise a brow.
“Yeah. Tiny white dots in her fur, freckles on her nose. It fits.”
“That sounds ridiculous.”
“Admit it. You like it.”
I bite my lip, fighting the smirk threatening to give me away.
Lord help me, because I actually don’t hate it.
Anything, and I mean anything, would be better than Sparklepaws.
“Keep telling yourself that,” I say, and he chuckles.
This time, I glance away before I find myself stuck in the orbit that is Michael Price’s tongue piercing, again.
“So, I guess that makes us… co-parents,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Absolutely not. I’m not co-parenting a cat with you.” The words sound ridiculous even as I say them.
“Hate to break it to you, but my name’s on the adoption papers.
That officially makes me a cat daddy.” He pauses, frowning slightly.
“Wait… what do they call it nowadays?” He tilts his head, lost in thought, and I can’t help but frown back at him.
Then he snaps his fingers. “Fur daddy. That’s it.
” He winks like he’s just solved a world crisis.
Somehow, he manages to keep his image of being young and a little reckless—sometimes even immature—but at the same time, he’s the most grounded, self-assured twenty-seven-year-old I’ve ever met. “You’re an idiot,” I tell him, but the smile still tugs at my lips.
“Yeah, maybe.” He points to my mouth. “But I’m an idiot who made you smile.”
He watches me steadily, and for a moment, I feel stripped bare under the weight of it.
It’s unnerving how almost comfortable it feels, how I can actually see myself letting go around him.
Carefree, even. The thought tugs sharply at my chest, anxiety gnawing at the edges.
It’s too much conversation for me right now.
Too much banter when all I want is a hot shower to scrub off the remnants of today’s shitshow.
I push off the bench with a sigh. “Alright, Hotshot. I’m in desperate need of a hot shower. ”
He leans back on his heels, grin stretching wide. “Ooh. Need me to hold the loofah? I’m excellent with bubbles.”
I let out a sound of pure exasperation, but it’s useless—the corners of my mouth betray me, tugging upward into yet another smile I didn’t plan on giving him.
“You’re ridiculous.”
Michael chuckles, palms raised in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’m going.” He heads for the door, shoulders loose, unbothered as always.
But just before he disappears, the words slip out of me. “Michael.”
He glances back, one brow arched.
“Thanks. For… everything.”
For a moment, something unreadable flickers in his expression. His voice is quieter when he answers. “Don’t thank me, Freckles. Showing up for a friend isn’t something I need to be thanked for.”
The door shuts softly behind him, and I’m left standing there, spiralling.
It shouldn’t get to me, but it does. The sharp edges mixed with that stupid kindness…
It’s messing with me. I shake my head, forcing myself toward the bathroom.
My face is stiff from dried tears, my makeup’s probably a disaster, and there’s a burn low in my body that I don’t know what the hell to do with.
All because of him. Michael Price, the reckless, insufferable man who’s slowly prying through walls I swore no one would touch.