Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Quinn
Drive
Incubus
Sunday evenings have a specific kind of silence. The moment where you can’t pretend you have infinite time to figure things out before Monday makes its demands. I watch the city pass through the window as Dean drives, the streetlights sliding in slow streaks across the glass.
The backseat is crowded with my life in pieces: garment bags with work outfits, a tote with my laptop and notebooks, a box of toiletries and daily essentials labeled in my own careful handwriting, like naming the thing will make it feel less like a leap.
Mikey only has one assigned parking spot at his place, and street parking is nearly impossible, so I opted to leave my car parked at Dean’s, which is why they’re bringing me into the city.
Sadie sits beside me, her thigh pressed against mine, warmth and familiarity grounding me the way it always has. She’s chatty when she’s nervous. She’s quiet when she’s sure. Tonight, she’s somewhere in between.
“You doing okay?” she checks, twisting slightly to look at me.
I nod, because it’s easier than explaining the complicated truth. That I’m fine and not fine. But I said yes anyway. The uneasy part of me wants to stay in the comfort of Dean’s guest room until I find a place, until I know the city, until everything feels predictable.
And the other part of me is aware. Aware that I agreed to this. That I said yes when Mikey offered his spare room the other day. That my pulse quickened in a way that had nothing to do with logistics.
“I’m okay,” I assure her. “I’m just thinking.”
Sadie smiles gently, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking but won’t embarrass me by saying it out loud. “It’ll be good. You’ll be closer to work. No more commuting. More sleep.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Dean glances at me in the rearview mirror, his expression steady. “Mikey’s place is solid. Lincoln Park is safe. It’s quiet. And he’s on the top floor. You won’t hear neighbors stomping around.”
“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.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “As if she wouldn’t.”
Sadie rolls her eyes. “He’s doing this thing now. The protective boyfriend thing.”
Dean shrugs. “Don’t hate the player.”
Mikey snorts. “We all hate the player.”
Sadie laughs, then hugs me. “Okay. Have a good week. We’ll see you soon.”
“Soon,” I echo.
Dean gives Mikey a look, a brother-to-brother, unspoken meaning. Then he’s gone, pulling Sadie with him, the door clicking shut behind them. And suddenly, it’s quiet. Not awkward quiet. Just, aware quiet. The kind that makes you feel every inch of space between you and the other person.
Mikey doesn’t move right away. He stands near the living room, hands on his hips, gaze drifting toward the windows like he’s giving me time to acclimate. Or giving himself time to decide what version of him to be. Finally, he clears his throat. “You hungry?”
“I could eat,” I admit with a nod.
He nods like it’s a relief. “I ordered some Chinese. It’s on the counter.”
I follow him into the kitchen area. It’s modern but warm.
Dark cabinets, clean lines, a few mismatched mugs on hooks, like he’s not trying too hard to appear like a person who lives here.
The island is wide enough for two people to sit with space between them.
We eat standing at first, then Mikey pulls two stools out.
“So,” he says, ripping open a packet of chopsticks. “First week at the new job. How bad was it?”
I take a bite and exhale. “It was a lot.”
“Like, ‘I might die’ a lot or ‘I’m fine but I’m not fine’ a lot?” He grins after the question.
I blink. His tone is teasing, but the question is too accurate to be purely joking. “Second one,” I admit.
Mikey huffs a laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.” He reaches for his drink, and my gaze drops automatically. Water. I notice. Again. Like I’ve been noticing everything about him lately.
“You’re not drinking,” I observe.
His eyes flick to mine. A beat of hesitation. Then he shrugs. “Trying something new.”
“Why?”
It’s a simple question. It doesn’t feel simple when it leaves my mouth. Mikey’s jaw tightens slightly, like he’s deciding whether to deflect. He doesn’t. “Because I don’t want to be the guy who only exists when he’s buzzed.”