Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Quinn
Stupid Girl
Garbage
I wake up the next morning with the apartment feeling too quiet and my thoughts too loud.
The light is a pale, yellow sliding through the guest room window in a soft wash.
For a second, I don’t remember where I am.
My brain reaches for the familiar: Dean’s guest room, the smell of Sadie’s shampoo, the faint sound of Dean moving around the kitchen.
Then reality settles in. I’m in Lincoln Park at Michael’s apartment.
Exposed brick, open concept, and a hallway that connects my door to his.
My stomach tightens. I lie there for a few extra seconds, staring at the ceiling, listening.
No coffee machine. No footsteps. No music.
No TV. Nothing but complete silence. Which should be comforting.
Instead, it feels suspicious. Like the apartment is holding its breath.
I recall the night before and feel my skin flush.
The worst part isn’t that he stopped. It’s that I can still feel it.
Not his hands, because he barely touched me.
Not his mouth, because I remember that. Too well.
But the moment itself lingers like heat trapped under my skin, like my body memorized the distance between us and how quickly it disappeared.
I sit up and check my phone. 6:32 a.m. Too early for most humans. Early enough that Mikey is either still asleep or moving around like he did yesterday morning. But there’s nothing.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cool hardwood under my feet and start my routine on autopilot.
Brush teeth. Wash face. Pull hair into a knot.
Dress in the kind of outfit that makes me look competent even if my insides are doing a slow, confused spiral.
A blouse and black slacks. A pair of comfortable flats. My standard work armor.
I step into the hallway and pause, listening again.
Still quiet. I walk toward the kitchen. I’ve come to realize the open space looks different in daylight.
It’s warm, almost inviting. The exposed brick holds the morning light like it was designed to.
The couch looks ridiculously comfortable, like it’s waiting for me to curl into it and forget what day it is.
I don’t. I head straight for the kitchen, pull my laptop out of my bag, and set it on the island as if I’m already at work. As if I can turn this apartment into a neutral place by making it practical.
I open the fridge and stare at it, mostly out of stubborn curiosity. Beer. Red Bull. Leftovers from the food I cooked last night. Not enough food for someone who is awake, functioning, and presumably alive. I shut it.
I’m halfway through making myself a piece of toast from the bread I found in the back of a cabinet when I hear movement down the hall; footsteps, low and measured, followed by the soft click of a door opening. My spine straightens automatically. I hate that it does that.
Mikey appears in the hallway, dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans, hair damp at the edges like he showered fast. He looks awake in the way musicians look awake. His eyes are alert, body moving with purpose, but something in his face still half-untethered. Like he didn’t sleep well either.
He stops when he sees me. The moment stretches before he finally speaks. “Morning,” he greets me, voice rough.
“Morning,” I reply, too quick.
His eyes flick to my laptop on the counter, then back to my face. A faint furrow appears between his brows. “You’re up early.”
“I have to be,” I explain. “Lots to finish catching up on.”
He nods and shrugs. “Right.” He walks past me toward the coffee machine, movements controlled. He doesn’t brush against me. Doesn’t let himself. He keeps a careful distance that feels like a statement.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye and force myself not to overthink it. Don’t. That’s what he said last night. Not as a joke. Not teasing. Not playful. Firm and in control. I swallow and focus on my toast, chewing even though my mouth is dry.
Mikey starts the coffee machine and doesn’t offer me a cup. It shouldn’t matter. It still does. His silence sits heavy between us, and in it I replay the moment on the couch like my brain is trying to solve a puzzle.
I leaned in. He stopped me. He said: If I kiss you again, I won’t stop. That line, more than anything, has been looping in my head since last night. And the worst part? I know he meant it. Because it’s dangerous. Because I want to know what it feels like when he doesn’t stop.
I have a new job. A new city. A life in transition.
All things I’m thrilled about. Staying here in his apartment, here in the city, has been a vast improvement in my every day life.
I’m definitely not as exhausted now that I don’t have to commute two hours a day.
Mikey is a complication with a heartbeat.
And I already let it get further than I planned.
I set my toast down and clear my throat. “I’m sorry about last night.”
He glances at me. “Okay.”
I snap my gaze up to lock with his. “I can go back to Dean’s. I don’t want to make you feel like you have to tip-toe around me in your own home.” It’s not what I want. Not by a long shot. But I also don’t want to make things any harder on him.
“Let’s not make it weird.” He shifts his weight to lean against the counter. “You don’t need to go. I understand I can be irresistible.” He cocks a sly grin my way in an attempt to detract and simplify what happened.
“Yeah, that’s what it was.” I smile back at him, even though inside I’m dying. He’s joking. I’m not. It’s fine. This is good. I grab my bag, shove my laptop inside, and head for the door. My hand is on the knob when Mikey speaks again.
“Quinn.”
I pause. I don’t look at him. I don’t trust my face to stay neutral if I do. “Yeah?”
A beat of silence, then, “Have a good day.”
The words are quiet. Simple. Not flirtatious. But they do something to my chest anyway. “You too,” I call over my shoulder, and I walk through the door before my voice can betray me.
The stairwell is cool and smells faintly like old brick and someone’s laundry detergent. I take the steps quickly, like distance will keep my body from remembering what it wanted last night. Outside, the morning air bites lightly, crisp and clean. I breathe it in until my lungs feel steadier.
This is fine. I can handle this. I can handle attraction. I’ve handled it before. What I don’t handle well is the kind of attraction that feels like it’s reaching for something deeper. I know better. Damn libido and this damn dry spell I’ve been in for months. I blame it on that.
Work helps. Work is measurable. Work is logic and structure and competence. Work is a place where my brain can focus on tasks instead of the way Mikey looked at me like he was holding himself back by force.
By noon, I’m in the rhythm of the day answering emails, sitting through meetings, trying to memorize names and protocols and the unspoken politics of a new environment. My phone buzzes. It’s Sadie. I stare at her name on the screen for a second longer than necessary. Then I answer.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Her voice bright. “How’s it going at Mikey’s?”
I hesitate. This is the moment where I could tell the truth. Not everything. Just enough. Something like: I threw myself at him last night. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t stop thinking about him.
But that honesty would invite questions. Concern. Advice. Emotional involvement. And I’m not ready for any of that.
“It’s fine.” That’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. “Quiet. The apartment is really nice. Mikey is surprisingly normal.”
Sadie laughs. “Mikey being normal is the biggest plot twist of the decade.”
My mouth twitches, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Yeah. Well, he’s being very respectful.” Unfortunately.
There’s a pause on the line. A small one. But Sadie hears everything, even what I don’t say. “Anything weird?” she prods gently.
“No,” I answer too quickly. “No. It’s good. It’s helping. No more commute time. I get to sleep in until seven instead of having to get up at five-thirty. It’s nice.”
“Good,” she states, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “And you? You’re okay?”
“Yes,” I confirm, and this time it’s closer to the truth.
Sadie hums. “Dean says hi.”
My heart softens. “Tell him hi.”
“I will. Also, Quinn?” She hesitates. “If you need anything…”
“I know,” I interrupt. “I promise. I’m fine.”
The line goes quiet again. Sadie doesn’t push. She never pushes when she knows pushing will make me retreat further.
“Okay,” Her voice soft. “Call me later?”
“Yeah,” I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Later.”
When we hang up, I stare at my computer screen and realize my hands are clenched. I force them to relax. This is why I don’t do complications. Because I don’t like feeling like I’m one phone call away from unraveling.
By the time I get home, it’s later than usual on purpose. I told myself I’d stay a little longer to get ahead on work. Which isn’t a lie. I did. But I also stayed because the idea of walking into Mikey’s apartment feels like stepping into something I’m not ready to name.
I take the stairs to the top floor and pause outside the door, listening. Music, faintly. Something low and rhythmic. Not loud. Just atmosphere. I unlock the door quietly and step inside.
The apartment is dimmer now, the warm light of lamps casting soft shadows across brick and leather and dark wood. Mikey is in the living room, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, tapping out a beat on the drum pad. His back is to me. He turns at the sound of the door closing.
“Hey,” he greets me. His voice is neutral, his face guarded.
“Hey,” I give a small wave.
We stand there for a moment, both of us holding the air between us like it might break if we breathe too hard. I force myself to move first. I walk toward the kitchen, set my bag down, and start doing something practical by rinsing my travel mug, and then wiping a nonexistent spot on the counter.
Mikey watches me, and I can feel his gaze like a weight. “You eat?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
He nods slowly like he doesn’t believe me. “Okay.”
Silence again.
I turn slightly, leaning my hip against the counter, keeping distance. Keeping control.
“I’m going to go chill in my room,” I rush out, voice even. “Long day.”
“Okay,” he repeats, like he’s trying to keep his tone neutral too.
I start down the hall before my courage can falter.
“Quinn.”
His voice stops me mid-step. I turn halfway, not fully facing him. “What?”
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, and something 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.