17. Mike
Seventeen
Mike
Her apartment is too damn small.
That’s the first thing I think when I walk through the door behind her—duffel bag in one hand, her keys in the other.
There’s nothing wrong with it.
It’s clean. Bright. Smells like her.
But the second I see her bed—twin-sized, ornate metal frame shoved against the wall—something hot curls in my chest.
It’s not good enough for my girl.
She drops her bag on the couch and spins around to face me, hands on her hips.
“Okay, big guy. We said one bag.”
“I said I’d carry the bag. Didn’t say how many I’d leave with.”
Her brow lifts. “Are you planning on emptying my whole closet?”
“If you don’t stop me,” yeah, I reply flatly, walking into her bedroom.
She follows, huffing.
I pause in front of her bed.
It’s made neatly. Sheets pulled tight. Pillow fluffed.
And I hate every inch of it.
I picture her curled up here—too small, too alone. I picture her waking up cold. Trying to sleep after a long day without me wrapped around her.
No.
This isn’t home anymore.
Not for her.
“I don’t like it,” I mutter.
“What? My room?”
“This bed.” I grip the footboard. “It’s bullshit.”
She crosses her arms. “It fits me fine.”
“Barely.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do,” I cut her off. “You need space. Comfort.”
“Mike—”
I turn to face her.
She’s glaring. Chin tilted. Mouth set.
So damn beautiful I forget how to breathe.
“You’re moving in,” I say.
Her lips part. “Again? Mike, we talked about this…”
“I’m not deciding for you.” I step closer. “I’m telling you what I need.”
She blinks.
“I need you home with me. In my bed. In my house. Where I know you’re warm and fed and fucking safe.”
“You can’t just—”
“Yes, I can,” I growl. “Because I’ve seen what it’s like to lose things. I’ve held death in my hands. And I’m not spending one more night wondering if you’re okay in this goddamn matchbox while I lie awake two miles away.”
She swallows. Looks away.
Then—softly—“You’re serious.”
“Dead.”
Her eyes flick back to mine. She sees it.
All of it.
The need. The fear. The iron promise buried deep.
“I don’t want to be a thing you move around,” she says, voice small.
I step into her space. Lower my voice.
“You’re not a thing. You’re mine.”
Her breath hitches.
“And it’s not about control, baby. It’s about devotion.”
I press my forehead to hers.
“It’s my fucking honor to take care of you. You’re not a burden. You’re a blessing I’m not letting go of.”
She exhales. Shaky. Hands pressed flat against my chest.
“Say yes,” I whisper.
She doesn’t speak.
She just grabs my collar, tugs me down, and kisses me like she’s already home.