Chapter 10 #2
The words hit something in me, something that’s been suspicious and searching since the moment I met him. I try to keep my face neutral. Professional and calm. But my heart flutters under my rib cage.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the quiet threaded with something that isn’t discomfort.
It’s attention. It’s the sensation of being seen.
I set my chopsticks down and glance around again, letting my gaze take in the living room from this angle; the enormous couch, the clean lines, the warmth of the brick.
The dark color palette that still feels strangely inviting.
“This is comfier than I expected,” I reveal.
Mikey’s mouth curves. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I expected…” I trail off, searching for the right word.
“A dump?” he supplies.
I grin despite myself. “A man cave.”
He laughs, low and warm. “It is a man cave.”
“It definitely has some boy touches,” I add, nodding toward the gaming setup.
“Boy touches?” he repeats, his eyebrows hiking up.
“PlayStation,” I expand on my observation. “Controllers. Giant TV. The whole vibe.” I glance around, then continue. “But all the candles, the low lighting, the stereo setup, those scream chick magnet.”
Mikey stills. Like I hit a button I didn’t know was there. I blink, immediately aware I might’ve misread the line between teasing and too personal. Then he grits out, “It’s not.”
My brows knit. “It’s not what?”
“A chick magnet.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s not for that.”
I hold his gaze. “Oh, okay.”
Mikey exhales like he’s already halfway annoyed with himself. “I’ve never brought a girl here.”
I stare at him, sure I misheard. “What?”
He shrugs, looking away. “Never brought anyone here.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I spout before I can stop myself, because I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the way women orbit him like gravity works differently around famous men. I’ve seen the way he wears charm like armor. I’ve seen him make himself easy to want.
Mikey’s eyes flick back to mine, and for a split second, I see it; the crack. Something careful and guarded beneath the humor. “It does makes sense,” he explains, “if you don’t want them to see you when you’re not on. This place is just for me.”
The words hang between us. I don’t respond right away, because I can’t. Not without stepping into territory I promised myself I wouldn’t touch. Instead, I pick up my chopsticks again, hands steady. “So, what do you do? Just go home with them?”
“Pretty much.” He shoots me a humorless smile. “Or there’s always a bathroom sink. A random hotel room. Her car. Whatever is convenient.”
Something tightens in my chest. Not jealousy.
Not exactly, but it’s something I’m not ready to examine too closely yet.
I nod slowly knowing the admission isn’t a flex.
It’s a boundary. One he put there for a reason.
This is his safe space. What he does away from here doesn’t actually reflect him, but a way he escapes.
And yet, somehow, I’m here. And that matters.
I glance at him again. He’s watching me with a quiet intensity that doesn’t match the surface conversation. “What?” I ask, too aware of my own voice.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.” I bite back.
His mouth quirks. “You always this annoying?”
“You find me anything but annoying.” I flash a saccharine grin.
Mikey chuckles, then leans back on the stool, his arms folding across his chest. “You’re going to hate my fridge.”
My brows lift. “Why?”
He stands, walks to the fridge, and opens it like he’s revealing a crime scene.
I stare. Now this is exactly what I expected.
A few basic containers. Some questionable leftovers.
A carton of eggs that looks like it’s been there for a while.
Beer. Red Bull. A bottle of something that might be juice but might also be a science experiment. My mouth twitches.
“I told you,” He shrugs.
“I’m not judging,” I reply automatically, and then chuckle, “Actually, I am judging a little.”
Mikey’s grin widens. “Fair.”
He shuts the fridge and leans against it, arms braced, shoulders broad beneath the black T-shirt. The posture looks casual, but his eyes are too alert, too present, like he’s aware of every movement I make.
“Tomorrow’s Monday,” he states the obvious.
“It is,” I confirm.
“What time do you leave?”
“Early.”
He nods. “I’ll be up.”
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 should be 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 say you’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?”
I take another sip, pretending to think. “Avoidant drummer with an energy drink addiction and a suspiciously comfortable couch.”
Mikey laughs, and its real laughter, warm and unguarded, and it loosens something in my chest I didn’t realize was tight. “Your turn,” he says. “What’s your brand?”
I blink. “My brand?”
He nods. “Yeah. You’re always labeling people. Label yourself.”
My mouth opens with a response ready, but it stalls.
Because labeling myself means admitting the thing I’ve been trying not to admit since I walked into this apartment.
That I’m not just starting a job. I’m starting a new life.
And this, this forced proximity with Mikey might matter in ways I haven’t decided how to manage.
“Competent,” I offer. Safe. Controlled. Not reckless enough to do something like this… except, shit I did.
Mikey’s eyes soften, and he nods like he expected that. “Yeah. You are.”
His voice is quiet. Not teasing. Just true.
My chest tightens again. I look away first, because I don’t trust myself to hold his gaze too long.
Outside, the city wakes up. Inside, we stand in his kitchen, both of us pretending this is ordinary, pretending the air isn’t charged with the awareness of how close we are.
I take one more sip of coffee to try to anchor myself in the practical. “Thank you again,” my voice steady. “For letting me stay here.”
Mikey’s jaw shifts like he’s swallowing something. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
His eyes lift to mine again. “Okay,” he accepts softly. “Then, you’re welcome.”
A beat passes. Then he glances at the clock. “Are you going to be late?”
I blink. “Right.” I turn toward the hallway, and I feel his gaze on my back as I walk away, but it’s not the look of a man who’s thinking about sex. It’s the look of a man who’s thinking about what it means that I’m here at all.
I close my bedroom door, heart beating just a little too fast. And for the first time since I agreed to this arrangement, a thought blooms in my mind with uncomfortable clarity: This was supposed to be simple.
Temporary. Logical. It’s already not. And I think, I knew that before I walked through the door, and did it anyway.