Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Mikey
Sun to Me
MGK
I wake up before her. For a minute I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, replaying last night.
The way her hands shook on those sticks.
The way she hit the drums like she was trying to knock something loose from her ribs.
The way she leaned back into me when she was done.
And the way I had to remind myself what happens when I don’t stop us.
I swallow. I could’ve taken her home and undressed her. She would’ve let me. I know that now. But that’s not what she needed. And if I’m going to be the guy she leans on, then I don’t get to blur lines just because it’s convenient.
I roll out of bed quietly. The apartment is still dark, the late September sunlight just starting to spill gold through the blinds.
Chicago does fall right with the blue skies and the crisp air with that perfect edge of chill that makes you want to be outside.
I shower fast, pull on jeans and a Henley, then slip out the door before she wakes up.
There’s a bakery two blocks over. I’ve walked past it a hundred times.
Never gone in. Today I do. By the time I’m back, I’ve got coffee beans from the good place down the street, two blueberry muffins, one chocolate chip (just in case), and a small bouquet of cheap sunflowers I pretend I didn’t stand there debating over for three full minutes.
It’s not a grand gesture, but it’s intentional. And probably means more than it should.
The coffee’s brewed and the muffins are on plates by the time I hear her bedroom door creak open. I don’t turn around right away. I give her a second.
“Morning,” I toss out casually, like last night didn’t involve her sobbing behind a drum kit in a dive bar.
She steps into the kitchen slowly. “You’re up.”
“Shocking, I know.”
She eyes the counter taking in the mugs, the muffins and the flowers. “For me?” There’s hesitation there. Like she’s surprised I would do this.
“Figured you earned the carbs.” There’s that flicker in her eyes; embarrassment trying to creep in. I cut it off before it settles. “You were a badass last night,” I lean against the counter. “Joe texted me. Said if you ever want a gig, he’s got an opening.”
Her mouth twitches. “I was drunk.”
“You were human,” I correct. And I mean that. More than anything else I said.
Silence stretches for a second. She studies me like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like I’m going to tease her. Or make it about the part where she practically begged me to drag her to bed. I don’t. Instead, I slide her mug toward her. “You hungover?”
“Little fuzzy.”
“That’s why there’s water already in the fridge. And ibuprofen in the cabinet.”
She blinks at me. I shrug, the smirk on my face impossible to hide. “I’m an expert at hungover.”
Her shoulders ease. Just a fraction but it’s enough. That’s the win. I take a sip of my coffee, then nod toward the window. “It’s stupid nice out. Last of the September magic. I don’t have to be in the studio today.”
She raises a brow. “You don’t?”
“Nope. Luc’s got something going with Lily and Larkin, so thought maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve alcohol or emotional breakdowns.”
She huffs out a laugh.
“There’s a fall fest in Lincoln Square,” I continue, keeping it light. “Or we could hit the Art Institute. Be cultured. Pretend I understand abstract expressionism.”
“Why Michael, I’m shocked that you don’t know about art.” Her mouth quirking up in a little smirk.
“I absolutely do not. Not even going to pretend.”
That finally pulls a real smile out of her. And it hits me square in the chest. God, she’s beautiful when she forgets to guard herself. She wraps both hands around her mug, studying me again, but differently now. “You don’t have to do this,” her voice soft.
“Do what?” I lean back against the counter.
“All of this.” She sweeps an arm out in an arc toward the counter.
I meet her eyes and hold them. “Yeah, I do.” Not because I feel guilty. Not because I turned her down. But because I want her to know she can trust me with the ugly days. And most of all, because I want to. She considers my suggestions longer than I expect.
“The museum.” She takes a sip from her mug. “I haven’t been to one in years.”
There’s something careful in the way she says it. Like she’s testing whether I’ll roll my eyes. I don’t. “Art Institute it is,” I confirm with a nod. “You can explain things to me like I’m five.”
“I can do that.”
“Perfect. That’s my learning level.”
That almost-smile again. Softer now and less guarded. She disappears to get dressed, and I give her space. I don’t hover. I don’t overdo it. I just clear the plates, rinse the mugs, and pretend I’m not absurdly pleased she chose the thing that matters to her.
By the time she steps back into the living room, I take one look at her and forget whatever smart-ass comment I was planning.
She’s in skinny black jeans and an oversized pink sweater.
Her hair is down, the curls flowing like silk over her shoulders.
Minimal makeup, and her blue eyes are sparkling like sapphires.
She looks warm, and soft. Like fall personified.
And suddenly, keeping my distance feels like it’s going to be the hardest part of the day.
“You ready?” She glances away, her cheeks flushing as she grabs her bag off the chair to sling it over her shoulder. I nod once, because if I stare any longer, I’m going to say something that shifts the tone.
We take the L downtown. It’s easy. Comfortable. Our knees bump when the train jolts but she doesn’t put any space between us. Not even a little. I don’t hate that. We walk from the station to the museum, and I point out places along the way that I know and think she might enjoy.
I pay for our tickets when we get there, even though she argues that she’s perfectly capable of paying her own way. I gently remind her I’m a rich rockstar and tell her to deal.
The museum is quiet in that reverent way it always is.
Polished floors. Echoing footsteps. The faint smell of old paint and history.
She relaxes the second we step inside. I notice.
Her shoulders drop. Her voice changes and it’s softer, more assured.
She walks me through rooms like she belongs here.
“These are my favorite Monet’s,” she points, tilting her head toward a wash of color and light. “He painted the lily pond over and over at different times of day. He was obsessed with the light.”
“Or he had commitment issues,” I murmur.
She pauses long enough to focus her attention on me. “No. He was obsessed with getting it right.”
I glance at her instead of the painting. Getting it right. Yeah. I can definitely relate. We move slowly. No rush. No phones out. Just wandering. At one point she stops in front of a piece that’s abstract, chaotic, slashes of dark against gold.
I step up beside her. “You like this one?”
She nods faintly. “It’s messy. But intentional.”
“Sounds a bit like me.” I mutter under my breath.
Her head turns slightly. “That’s a harsh self-description.”
I shrug. “I like to keep things real, even about myself.”
Her breath catches. Just barely. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. Or maybe I did. She studies the painting a moment longer before speaking. “You really don’t think I failed him?”
There it is. I shift to face her fully. “I think you care, and sometimes caring doesn’t get you the outcome you want.”
She swallows. “You didn’t see his face.”
“I don’t need to.”
Her fingers flex at her sides like she’s debating something.
Then, small and deliberate her pinky brushes mine.
Not an accident. A question. I don’t grab her hand.
I just let my fingers settle against hers.
Not pushing. She could pull away. She doesn’t.
And I clock the moment. Her breathing changes again, because that’s when I realize something dangerous; she’s looking at me differently today.
Not like I’m fun. Not like I’m safe chaos.
Like I’m solid. Like I’m something she could actually lean on.
And yeah, this seems like one of those good steps.
We move through more rooms. She talks. I listen. Sometimes I understand the art. Most of the time I don’t. But I understand her. And that feels more important.
Later, we sit on the museum steps outside, the September sun hitting the lake just right. She’s got a cider in her hand from a street vendor. I reach over without thinking and wipe a smudge of cinnamon from her upper lip with my thumb.
Her entire body stills. I freeze too. Because we both know exactly where this could go.
We’ve been there. Twice. There’s a line here, and we’re right on it.
Her eyes flick to my mouth. Mine probably do the same.
The air tightens. I could kiss her right now.
I know she would let me. Hell, I’d ruin myself over it.
But I don’t. And I don’t move closer. Not because I don’t want to though. Because I do. Too much.
Instead, I lean back slightly, giving her room to breathe. “You doing better?”
She nods, but her voice is quiet. “Yeah, thanks.”
Not embarrassed. Just relief. I stand and offer her my hand. “Come on. Let’s walk.”
She takes it immediately. And she doesn’t let go. On the walk back toward the train, she’s the one who threads her fingers fully through mine. No hesitation. Not testing. She’s choosing and I feel it all the way in my chest.
I don’t squeeze. I don’t tease. I just hold on. Because this, whatever this is, deserves patience. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not in a rush to get to the good part. I think I’m already in it.