Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Mikey
Shimmer
Fuel
Morning feels different than they used to. I wake before my alarm, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft hum of the city outside the windows. The apartment smells faintly like the stir-fry I made last night and whatever shampoo Quinn uses.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and run a hand through my hair, smiling to myself without really knowing why.
I amble out of my bedroom and down the hall.
Her mug sits in the sink. Her shoes by the door.
The blanket from the couch sits half-folded where we left it yesterday morning. Little signs she exists here.
I move through the kitchen automatically, starting coffee, leaning against the counter while it brews. My eyes drift toward the couch again. I don’t remember the last time waking up felt this easy, this good. The thought sits with me longer than it should.
I leave before Quinn gets up. Not because I’m avoiding her, but because we’re starting a new track today and I actually feel good about it. Ideas have been bouncing around in my head since yesterday, rhythms tapping against my ribs like they’re impatient to get out.
The studio is loud before I even walk in.
Luc’s voice cuts through the noise, Dean arguing with the producer about guitar tone, someone testing levels through the monitors.
Cables snake across the floor. Empty beer bottles and coffee cups everywhere.
Normal chaos. Familiar enough that my body relaxes the second I step inside.
I drop my bag near my kit and spin a stick between my fingers, settling into place. The first run-through starts rough. We’re still finding the shape of the song. Something about it feels crowded, like too much is happening too soon.
I listen harder the second time. There it is.
The beginning doesn’t breathe. We stop halfway through and I lean forward, tapping the rim of the snare thoughtfully.
“What if we stripped the intro back?” I glance toward the booth, energy buzzing under my skin.
“Let it breathe for a second before everything kicks in. Drums carry it alone for a few bars, build tension, then everyone drops in.”
The producer pauses, considering. And I can see it; that moment where he’s actually thinking about it.
Luc doesn’t even hesitate with a response.
“We’ve already got the arrangement locked.
” He waves a hand like he’s swatting away a fly.
“Just keep the groove steady, man. We don’t need to reinvent it. ”
The words land harder than they should. I open my mouth, ready to explain what I mean; how it would build anticipation, make the drop hit harder, but Dean’s already adjusting his guitar, the producer calling for another take.
Conversation moves on without me. Like the idea never existed. I nod, spinning the stick once between my fingers. “Yeah, okay then.” The sarcasm is missed by everyone but Hayden, who’s staring straight at me. I shrug and count us back in.
The rhythm comes easy. Muscle memory takes over. I hit every beat exactly where it belongs. I’m locked in and give them reliable and safe. The take ends and everyone nods approval through the glass.
Luc gives me a thumbs up. Good job, drummer.
I force a grin. Inside, something tightens.
It’s not doubt, it’s frustration. Because I know I’m right about this.
I just don’t push it. At least, not today.
We run the track again. And again. Each take tighter than the last. Each one feeling a little less like mine.
By lunch everyone sprawls across couches and folding chairs, food containers open, conversation loud and easy. Dean launches into bachelor party plans for what feels like the hundredth time, Luc laughing while he scrolls through his phone, showing us a picture of Larkin that Lily texted.
I pick at my food, listening more than talking.
Hayden sits across from me, calm and unreadable as always.
His movements slow, precise, like nothing ever rattles him.
His gaze flicks toward me once. It’s sharp and observant, like he noticed something I’m trying not to show. I look away before he can say anything.
The afternoon drags. My shoulders burn from repetition.
Sweat cools against my skin between takes.
The air in the studio feels thick, heavy with sound and stale coffee.
Every time we restart the track I hear the version in my head - the one we’re not playing.
I stop bringing it up. No point. By the time we finally wrap, exhaustion settles deep in my muscles.
I pack up slowly, winding cables, tossing sticks into my bag.
Everyone’s in good spirits. Productive day.
Another track basically finished. I should feel good.
We nailed the take. But all I hear is the version we didn’t play, like I left something unsaid sitting in the room.
I head home, hands shoved into my pockets, replaying the studio moment on a loop. I’ve been trying lately. Showing up differently. Less chaos. More focus. And all they still see is the fun drummer. I’m more than the little brother who’s along for the ride.
The thought sits heavy until I turn the corner toward my building. And suddenly all I want is to be inside. Home. That realization stops me for half a second. Since when did going home become something I look forward to?
The apartment is quiet when I walk in, but I know she’s here.
Her bag sits by the door. Her shoes are kicked off near the couch.
I turn the corner and see her in the kitchen, hair loose, sleeves pushed up, scrolling on her phone.
She glances up immediately. Her smile fades a second later. “You okay?”
“Shit day.” I shrug, a wary sigh escaping as I drop my keys onto the counter, my hand gripping the back of my neck as I look over at her. “I’m just going to take a shower and hit the hay.”
She studies me for a beat longer than usual. Then she shakes her head slightly. “Okay. Nope.”
I blink. “What?”
She points at me like she’s making an executive decision. “We’re not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This mood.” She steps toward the fridge. “Whatever it is. I reject it.”
I laugh quietly despite myself. She starts pulling things out; ice cream, chocolate syrup, sprinkles, whipped cream, lining them up across the counter with ridiculous seriousness.
“What is happening right now?” I cross my arms over my chest as I scan the contents on the counter.
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Therapy. The Quinn version.”
I lean against the counter, watching her move around the kitchen. The heaviness in my chest loosens just a little. She hands me a bowl. “Sit. Participate.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a mock salute and do as she commands.
She snorts softly. We build ridiculous sundaes, piling toppings higher than necessary. She piles on sprinkles like she’s proving a point.
“You don’t think that’s a little excessive?”
“Sprinkles can never be too excessive.”
“If you say so.” I grin over at her. “You are the professional.”
She gets chocolate on her finger and makes a face, licking it off absently, and I’ve never wanted to be chocolate more in my life. The action grabs my attention hard. She notices me watching. “What?”
I shake my head, scooping another spoonful. “Nothing.”
A second later she sprays whipped cream straight at my face. It lands across my cheeks and my nose. I freeze, my mouth falling open in disbelief.
Laughter bursts out of her, bright and unfiltered. “Ooops.” She feigns innocence, her fingers moving to cover her mouth.
I wipe it off slowly, narrowing my eyes. “You’re dead.”
She squeals, backing away as I snatch the can from her. Chaos follows. Laughter fills the kitchen, both of us dodging, slipping, trying not to drop bowls while whipped cream ends up everywhere except where it belongs.
At some point we end up standing too close, breathless from laughing. The room goes quiet. Her smile softens. There’s a smear of whipped cream near her mouth. Without thinking, I reach up, and use my thumb to brush it away. She stills.
I slide my thumb between my lips and suck the cream off in one pull. Her breath catches softly. The world narrows. I lean in. Slow. Deliberate. Giving her time to stop me. She doesn’t.
My hand comes up, cupping her jaw, my damp thumb brushing just under her bottom lip like I’m deciding something I already know the answer to. “Still think this is a good idea?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. “No.” But, she doesn’t move away. No hesitation, just truth. That’s all I need. I kiss her. This time is not testing. Not careful. It’s deeper the second it starts, like we both already know what this is.
Her hands come up immediately, gripping my shirt, tugging me closer instead of holding back. My other hand slides to her waist, fingers pressing in just enough to anchor her there, like I’m trying to keep control of something that’s already slipping.
She shifts into me, closing the last inch of space between us, and suddenly this isn’t the kitchen anymore. It’s not ice cream and jokes and bad days. It’s just, her. And the fact that I don’t want to stop. Her breath breaks against mine when she pulls back just enough to look at me.
“Q?” My voice is rough now, edged with something I’m barely holding in check.
Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “We should stop.”
The words are soft. But they hit harder than anything else she could have said. I don’t move right away, but neither does she. Our breaths are still tangled, her hand still fisted in my shirt, like her body hasn’t caught up to whatever her mind is thinking.
“You sure?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
Her eyes flick up to mine. There’s something there. Not hesitation or doubt. Something tighter, more complicated. “Yes.” A beat. “Before this turns into something we can’t walk back from.”
“Yeah.” Quieter this time. “Okay.” I step back first. Give her space, even though everything in me wants to close it again. She lets go of my shirt slowly, like it takes effort.
The air hums between us. I stay inches away. My breathing rough. Her lips parted slightly. “You’re smart, you know that?”
Her eyes widen just a little. “You think?”
“What I think is that we both feel where this is going, and neither of us is pretending we don’t. And sleeping together will solidify that.”
The words land heavy between us. My gaze flicks to her mouth again, and then I step back slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. She stays where she is, quiet, watching me.
I grab a towel from the counter, wiping whipped cream off the counter. The moment shifts, not broken, just folded away. She laughs softly, nervous energy threading through it. “You started this.”
I snort. “Pretty sure you fired first.”
She grins, tension easing. We clean up together, moving around each other carefully now, awareness lingering in the air. Every accidental touch feels louder than before. Later, sitting on the couch with empty bowls on the table, the room feels warmer somehow.
She leans back, a little more relaxed. I watch her from the corner of my eye.
Something shifted tonight. I just don’t know what it means yet.
I only know that when she laughs quietly at something on the screen, my chest feels full in a way I don’t know how to name.
And I’m not sure how much longer that line between us is going to hold, but I know I’m ready to snap.