Chapter 6 #2
Mikey stands in the kitchen, keys in hand, shoulders relaxed in a way that feels quieter than usual. He’s dressed down in a black T-shirt and worn jeans. No tequila. No forced grin. Just, him.
His eyes lift to mine and for a moment something like relief flickers there. I feel that more than I should. “Hey Quinn.”
“Hey drummer boy,” I quip, leaning against the doorway.
He holds up a paper bag. “I brought Thai. Dean said to bring food in case you two were hungry.”
That simple gesture probably means more than it should. It’s thoughtful. Normal. Domestic. He’s kind without making a spectacle of it.
“Thank you,” I express, genuinely grateful for something other than diner food.
Mikey clears his throat, stepping further into the kitchen. “Dean here?”
“Upstairs. Reuniting.” I can’t help the eye roll that escapes.
Mikey’s mouth quirks. “Ten days without her and he’s acting like he survived war.”
“You didn’t witness the hello kiss,” I groan. “It was intense.”
Mikey laughs, and it’s real; low and warm. “Yeah, that tracks.”
We open the bag he brought and unload the food. We eat at the kitchen island, and for a few minutes the only sounds are chopsticks and the faint hum of the refrigerator. Mikey’s presence is different like this. Quieter. Not trying so hard. And it makes me feel things I don’t want to feel.
Our hands reach for the same container and collide. We both pause. Just for a second. Then he pulls back. “Go ahead.” I take the container, but I feel the space where his hand was against mine a beat longer than necessary.
“So,” he finally glances across at me. “How was the drive?”
“Long,” I admit. “Mostly uneventful. Sadie tried to convince me that surviving on diner food for three days without feeling sick is entirely possible.”
“It is,” Mikey replies with solemn certainty. “It’s basically her brand.”
I laugh, surprised at how easily it comes. He takes a sip of water. Water. Not alcohol. I notice. I don’t comment. “How’s the studio been?” I ask instead.
He nods. “We’re easing in, but Luc is in full dictator mode already.”
“Shocking,” I chuff dryly.
Mikey grins. “Right? He’s all ‘artistic integrity’ and ‘vocal stamina’ and ‘we have to evolve’ like he didn’t once write a song about a girl’s ass in a leather skirt.”
My laugh bursts out. “He did not.”
“Oh, he did,” Mikey assures me. “Early days. Pre-fame. He swears it was poetic.”
I shake my head, amused, and something loosens inside me. This is the part of Mikey people probably don’t get to see because he’s always performing. The humor. The ease. The realness.
I study him again without meaning to. His forearm muscles shift when he lifts his chopsticks. The short beard growing along his jaw. His eyes are even lighter than I remember; warm brown with gold flecks when the light hits them. He catches me looking and stills, just a fraction. “What?”
I shake my head quickly. “Nothing.”
Mikey’s gaze narrows in mock suspicion. “That’s a lie.”
I roll my eyes. “I was thinking you look different.”
He lifts a brow. “Different good or different bad?”
“Different,” I search for the word. “Present.”
His expression changes, subtle but quick. “I don’t know what that means,” he frowns, but his voice is lighter than his eyes.
“It just means you’re… here.” I explain gently.
Mikey’s throat works like he swallows something. He glances toward the staircase, then back at me. “Maybe I’m tired of performing.”
“Okay.” I let it sit there. It shouldn’t matter to me, but it does.
We drift into conversation about apartments naturally, like it’s a safe topic neither of us can ruin. “I want to be close to work,” I explain. “I don’t need anything big. I just want it to feel like mine.”
Mikey nods, thoughtful. “You want quiet, but not isolated.”
I blink, surprised. “Yes.”
He shrugs like it’s obvious. “I know the city. I can help.”
“You’re offering to help because you’re a helpful person, or because you have ulterior motives?” I can’t help but tease him just a little.
“We could make out for a few minutes if you think that helps?” Mikey’s grin turns flirty, but after a beat, he reins it back in, his tone more serious.
“I’m offering to help because I live in the city and I’d rather you not end up in some overpriced shoebox with a broken elevator and haunted plumbing. ”
“Haunted plumbing?”
Mikey leans back on his stool. “Listen, Chicago has personality.”
“Nothing can beat New York,” I chuff.
“New York has rage,” he corrects, with a shake of his head. “Chicago has charm.”
I smile. “Debatable.”
“I’ll fight you on this one,” he points a chopstick at me, and there it is, the teasing edge, but softer than before. Less pushy. More inviting.
Sadie appears at the top of the stairs, hair messy, cheeks flushed, Dean behind her like a shadow. She pauses when she sees us at the island. Her gaze flicks between Mikey and me, and her smile turns knowing. “Oh.”
Mikey groans. “Don’t.”
Sadie laughs, padding down the stairs. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were absolutely going to say something,” Mikey accuses.
Dean steps into the kitchen, arm sliding around Sadie’s waist like it belongs there. His eyes take in the food with approval. “Good call on Thai.”
Sadie kisses Dean’s cheek, then turns to me. “You good? Did you find your room okay?”
“Yep,” I reply honestly. “Found the room and already brought some of my stuff up.”
Dean nods once, something steady in his expression. “You’re welcome here as long as you want to stay.”
Mikey stands, grabbing his keys. “I should get going. Gotta drive back into the city.”
Sadie makes a noise of protest. “You’re leaving? You literally just got here.”
“No, you just got here. I’ve been here for a while.” Mikey glances at me, and the look is brief but it lands. “Yeah. I’m leaving.”
He heads to the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob like he’s debating something. “I’m glad you’re here,” he speaks quietly.
My brow kicks up. “So am I.” Mikey holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then nods once and slips out.
That night, after Sadie and Dean retreat upstairs, way less frantic this time and much more tender, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet. The neighborhood hums softly outside. My brain should be exhausted. Instead, it’s on overdrive.
I replay the way Mikey looked tonight. The way he didn’t drink. The way he didn’t flirt, at least, not in the way he usually does. The way he offered help like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My phone buzzes near midnight. I reach for it, expecting Sadie. It’s him though; like he knew I was thinking of him.
Michael: You free this weekend?
My pulse ticks up, steady but insistent as I stare at the message longer than necessary before answering.
Me: Possibly. Why?
Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again like he’s editing himself mid-thought.
Michael: Thought we could look at apartments. No pressure. Just neighborhoods. Coffee. Walking.
Not come out with me. Not let me take you. Not a flirt. Just an offer to help. My fingers hover over the screen before I type:
Me: You’re very committed to getting me out of your brother’s house.
His reply is almost immediate.
Michael: I’m committed to helping a friend.
A beat.
Michael: You just need to promise not to psychoanalyze me in return.
I laugh into my pillow, the sound muffled, surprising me.
Me: Deal. Saturday?
Mikey: See ya Saturday, Q.
I set the phone down carefully, like the screen might burn me if I touch it too long. Then I roll onto my side and stare out the window, watching the streetlights glow in the distance.
Moving to a new city is really hard. I realize how lucky I am to have Sadie, Dean, and even Mikey to help me. That part is clear. I want to make sure that I keep making the right decisions, and not going to lie, Mikey is just tempting enough to make that complicated.