Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mikey
Iris
The Goo Goo Dolls
I wake up before she does. It takes a second to remember why my chest feels full.
Then I feel her. Warm against my side. One leg thrown across mine again like she claimed the space in her sleep without asking permission. Her hair is a mess across my chest, her hand tucked under her cheek. She looks like she belongs here. That thought lands too easily. My brain doesn’t like that.
Monday morning flashes through me; her phone in my hand, the realtor’s voice, the word apartment. The way she looked at me after I told her. Southport. Yours if you want it.
She hadn’t said yes at that point. But she hadn’t said no either. I stare at her for a long minute, watching her breathe. Temporary. The word slams into me before I can stop it. This is temporary.
She’s not going to stay in my bed forever. She’s not going to keep curling into me like this once she has her own place. She’s not going to keep leaving food on the counter when I’m late. I can’t get used to this. Can’t get attached. I already am.
I shift carefully, sliding out from under her. She stirs but doesn’t wake. My hand almost goes back to brush her hair from her face. Almost. Because I stop myself. Distance. Just a little. Enough that it won’t so much hurt later. When she is gone.
I head into the kitchen and start the coffee. Because I’m not a monster. Because even if I’m pulling back, I’m not going to leave her without caffeine. I pour a mug and set it by the machine so it stays warm. Then I grab a sticky note from the drawer.
Studio early.
Stop stealing all the blankets.
I stare at it. Am I being too soft? I leave it anyway then grab my keys and pause by the hallway. I could go back and kiss her goodbye. I don’t.
The studio feels louder than usual. Or maybe it’s just me. I play harder. Hit sharper. Push tempo without meaning to. Dean glances at me once during a take, brow slightly raised. Luc doesn’t say anything. He just watches.
When we break, I check my phone. There’s a message from Quinn.
Thanks for making me coffee. Keep me warmer then.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary. I could send something flirty. Instead:
Welcome.
I hit send before I overthink it. Three dots appear.
See you tonight!
I put the phone face down. I stay late. Not because I need to.
Because I don’t want to walk into the apartment and expect something.
When I finally unlock the door hours later, the lights are low.
For a second, panic flickers because the apartment feels empty.
But then I walk down the hallway and see her.
She’s asleep in my bed. One of my t-shirts swallowing her frame, one arm stretched across my pillow like she claimed it.
I stand in the doorway of the bedroom longer than I should, just staring. When I finally drag myself away, I notice a plate on the kitchen counter covered in foil. I walk over and lift it.
Pasta. The way I like it. Extra garlic. Too much parmesan. A note tucked under the edge.
Eat.
You forget when you’re working.
I swallow, my eyes pinching closed. She pays attention. She’s doing all this. And she might still leave. Why? I don’t understand. I eat the food because she’s right; I did forget, and I’m hungry.
After, I tip-toe into the bedroom, undress and sit on the edge of the mattress. She shifts toward me instinctively, even asleep. That almost undoes me. I slide under the covers slowly. Carefully. Like I’m not sure I deserve to be there.
My arm wraps around her waist before I can stop it. She melts back into me without waking. And I lie there staring at the ceiling, and remind myself again to not get used to this.
I wake up tangled around her. She smells like my laundry detergent and whatever shampoo she uses; something clean and soft. For a second I let myself pretend this is normal. Then my brain does what it’s been doing all week. Apartment. Southport. She’s leaving.
She stirs and turns toward me, sleepy smile already forming. “Morning.”
I press a quick kiss to her mouth in greeting and slide out of the bed. Too quick. She studies me like she notices the difference, her brow furrowing. “I’ve got to get in early,” That part’s not a lie. But the urgency is.
I make coffee again. Leave it for her again. But no note this time. That was too soft.
At the studio I’m worse. Louder. Faster. Sloppier. Luc finally stops mid-take and stares at me through the glass. “What are you doing?”
“Playing.”
“Like shit.” He spits back. I grip the sticks tighter. He’s not wrong.
That night I get home earlier. The apartment smells like pizza.
She’s on the couch in my hoodie. The one she stole from me in New York.
Something shifts uncomfortably under my ribs.
Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s scrolling through something on her phone. Her eyes lighting up in surprise.
“You’re home early.”
“Yeah.”
She smiles. It’s so real. So genuine. Like there’s nothing wrong. There’s a pizza box on the coffee table. I lift the cover and glance inside. Pepperoni. Mushrooms. Extra red pepper flakes. Exactly how I order it. My throat tightens. She didn’t just grab whatever. She grabbed what I like.
“You eat?” She reaches for a paper plate next to the box.
“Yeah.” Lie. Why am I fucking lying to her?
She pushes the box closer to me anyway. I sit beside her.
Close enough that our thighs touch. Not close enough that I relax.
She leans her head against my shoulder like she always does.
And instead of comfort, panic hums under my skin.
If she’s leaving, why does this feel like nesting?
Why does it feel like she’s building something here?
Later, when she curls into my bed again, I watch her instead of sleeping. My chest feels too tight. I reach for her, then stop. Then reach anyway. I can’t be near her and not be next to her. It’s too hard.
I wake her in the middle of the night. It’s not romantic. It’s not slow. It’s a need. I roll her onto her back and kiss her hard, almost rough, like if I push deep enough, I can anchor her here. She gasps against my mouth, surprised but not pulling away.
My hands are everywhere. Urgent. Clutching. She whispers my name like a question. I don’t answer. I just invade. Fast. Desperate. Like I’m trying to brand her into my memory. I finish almost as quickly as I started. My breathing is heavy as I rest my forehead against hers.
Her eyes search my face. “Are you okay?” Her voice soft and full of concern. I nod. I’m not. I press a kiss to her mouth than pull her to my chest, pretending to fall back asleep.
By Friday afternoon the noise in my head is louder than the music blaring from the amps.
It’s not the music that’s off. It’s me. I’m playing harder than I need to.
Pushing fills where they don’t belong. Leaning into cymbals like I’m trying to drown something out.
The tempo creeps up without meaning to, my foot driving the kick pedal faster than the song wants.
Luc’s voice cuts through the headphones, calm but edged. “Reset.”
We do. Again. And then again. And I restrain myself long enough to get through the first verse and then explode in the bridge like the energy has to go somewhere. When we finish, the silence inside the studio feels different. Not thoughtful, but cautious and measured.
Hayden is the first one who stands. He doesn’t look annoyed. He doesn’t look impressed. He just looks at me in a way that makes my skin prickle; like he’s cataloging something. “You’re too loud,” he states as he steps closer to the kit.
I twirl a stick between my fingers and flash him a forced grin and I point the stick at myself. “Rock n’ roll drummer.”
“Not like that you aren’t.” He reaches down and adjusts one of the mics himself, not because it needs it, but because he’s thinking. When he straightens, his eyes settle on me again. “You’re pushing too hard.”
I shrug. “Trying something different.”
Luc leans back in his chair, watching the exchange like he’s curious where it’s going to land.
Dean doesn’t say anything, but I catch the way his jaw tightens slightly.
They all feel it. Hayden doesn’t argue. He just steps back, his gaze locked on me as his hands slide into the pockets of his jeans.
Luc’s voice sounds through our in-ears. “We’re done for today.” It’s not a suggestion.
The producer looks surprised but nods. Gear starts powering down. I stay seated behind the kit longer than necessary, staring at the drum heads like they’ll explain what’s happening inside my chest.
When I finally slide off my throne to leave, I find Hayden waiting by the door. “You’re coming with me.” There’s no question in it. I hesitate just long enough to feel defensive, then grab my jacket and follow him to his car.
His car is exactly like him. Cool, dark, subtle but sleek. A black Audi A7 with light brown leather interior. I slide into the seat that’s as soft as butter. He doesn’t say a thing as he starts the car or during the entire drive into the city.
He parks in a part of town I haven’t been to before, but it’s nice enough.
The building doesn’t look like much from the outside.
Standard brick factory style building. Inside is another story.
Low, warm lighting. Dark leather seating and marble bar tops in a large room with even darker corners.
Music plays that doesn’t shout; it coils.
Conversations stay close to tables instead of spilling into the room.
Nothing feels chaotic. Every movement seems intentional.
Hayden doesn’t need to announce himself.
Doors open for him without asking, people adjusting as he moves through the space.
He belongs here. Not in the loud way I belong onstage, but in a quiet, dominant way.