Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Mikey
Glycerine
Bush
I’ve been pacing the Clark/Lake platform for twelve minutes. I know this because the arrival board has flipped twice and I’ve checked my watch more times than is reasonable for a man who has spent most of his adult life not waiting for anyone.
Quinn took the Green Line in from Oak Park. Her idea. Logical. Independent. She wants to learn how to get into the city using public transportation. Very her. Which means this whole thing already feels different.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket and scan the platform again. People spill off trains in clusters. Tourists, commuters, couples moving in practiced synchrony. None of them are her.
This was supposed to be easy. Apartment hunting. Neighborhoods. Coffee. Me being helpful and normal and not thinking about the fact that the last time Quinn got under my skin, she walked away afterward like she wasn’t rattled at all.
The train screeches in, metal screaming against metal, wind whipping through the platform.
Doors slide open. And after a few minutes, she steps out with a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, hair down, expression calm like she hasn’t just detonated my entire nervous system.
She’s wearing jeans, sneakers and my damn sweatshirt.
My chest tightens so fast it’s almost painful.
It’s the gray one. My favorite one. It’s soft and worn in.
The one she borrowed during her visit in New York when we were on tour.
Seeing it on her, casual, intentional, unmistakably mine, hits harder than any flirt ever has.
At least her legs are covered in jeans this time.
She looks up, spots me, and smiles. Not tentative. Not coy. Like she expected me to be here. I’m so fucked. “Drummer boy,” she stops when she reaches me, warmth in her voice.
“Doctor girl,” I reply, hoping she can’t hear the way my pulse has gone completely feral.
She glances down at herself, then back up at me, lips twitching. “You look surprised.”
“Y-You stole my favorite sweatshirt,” I manage to stutter out, nodding at the garment.
She shrugs, unfazed. “It’s comfortable.”
That’s it. That’s the whole explanation. I bite back a grin. “You’re aware that’s not an apology.”
“I’m not sorry,” she informs me, flashing a sly grin.
Of course she isn’t. I shake my head and lead her out of the station, the city opening up around us in layered sound and motion.
Traffic. Voices. The hum of something always happening.
Quinn moves beside me like she belongs here already, matching my pace without effort.
“How was the train?” I change the subject.
“Efficient,” she replies. “Crowded and slightly chaotic. Very on brand.”
I chuckle. “Welcome to Chicago.”
“I’m thinking that will be easier than trying to drive my car into the city for work every day though.”
“It absolutely will be.” I confirm. We start in Lincoln Park, walking tree-lined streets that feel calmer than downtown but still alive.
I live in this neighborhood, but I don’t tell her that.
I don’t want that to influence any decision she makes.
I point things out; coffee shops, grocery stores, little places you only notice if you live here. Quinn listens. Asks questions. Absorbs.
She’s wearing my sweatshirt. She’s so totally trying to get under my skin. She knew it would get a reaction out of me. That’s what’s killing me and all I can think about.
We tour a couple of places. One is overpriced. Another is charming but smells like mildew. Quinn takes it all in with the same thoughtful calm, never rushing, never apologizing for being discerning.
At some point, I realize I’m watching her more than the apartments. The way she tilts her head when she’s considering something. The way she doesn’t fill silence just because it exists. The way she touches her sleeve absentmindedly—my sleeve—like she forgot she’s wearing it.
We stop for coffee and sit on a low brick wall near a park. She stretches her legs out in front of her, relaxed. “You’re calmer today.”
I snort softly. “You say that like it’s a diagnosis.”
“It’s an observation,” she counters, smirking.
I glance at her. “You collecting those?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
The flirting is there now. No longer hypothetical.
Not loud, but sharp. But it feels intentional.
We walk more. Talk about her job, about what kind of space she wants.
Talk about music, about the city. About nothing.
About everything. And the longer we’re alone together, the harder it gets to keep pretending this is just friendly.
At a crosswalk, she bumps her shoulder lightly into mine. On purpose. My jaw tightens. “You’re doing that thing,” I warn.
She looks at me, innocent. “What thing?”
“That thing where you pretend you don’t know what you’re doing, but you absolutely do.”
Her smile is slow. Dangerous. “Am I?”
We stop walking. The city keeps moving around us, but the moment narrows, sharp and electric. I turn to face her fully, close enough now that I can see the flecks of lighter blue in her eyes. “Quinn,” I state her name with a quiet bite.
“Yes?” Her eyelids flutter as she looks up at me.
“You know I want you.” The words are simple. Honest. They land like a brick between us.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “I know,” she acknowledges calmly.
That steadiness only makes it worse. “I’m trying to be cool about it,” I continue, voice dropping. “Trying not to push.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “And?”
“And it’s getting harder.” I step closer. Not aggressive. Not rushed. Just enough to box her in against the brick wall behind her. My hands brace on either side of her, caging without touching. Giving her space while making my intent unmistakable. “Especially when you keep doing the thing.”
Her breath catches. Good. I lean in, close enough that I can feel her warmth, close enough that kissing her would be the easiest thing in the world.
But I don’t. I hold her gaze instead, letting her see exactly how much restraint this costs me.
“I could kiss you right now,” I murmur. “God knows I want to.”
Her pulse jumps. I see it. Feel it. And then, she moves. It’s not hesitant. Not unsure. Her hand reaches out to fist lightly in the front of my jacket, and then tugs me in like she’s done waiting for permission.
Her mouth finds mine. And fuck, it’s quick, but it’s not soft.
It’s heat and tension and everything we’ve not been doing all day compressed into one sharp, electric moment.
My hands flex against the wall beside her, every instinct I have screaming to close the distance, to pull her into me, to deepen it, but I don’t.
I hold the line. Even as she kisses me like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Then she draws back. Just as fast. Her breath uneven. So is mine.
“Okay,” she exhales, shaking her head slightly like she’s clearing it. “Yeah… that was a mistake.”
I huff a quiet laugh, not even trying to hide it. “Didn’t feel like one.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t quite smile. “That’s exactly the problem.”
Her hand is still resting against my chest. She notices it. Slowly drops it. Then looks back up at me, steady again, but not untouched. “We’re not doing this,” she shakes her head. Not a shutdown. A boundary.
I tilt my head, watching her. “Not doing what?”
“This,” she gestures vaguely between us. “Whatever this turns into if we’re not careful.”
I step back half a pace this time. Give her space. Not retreating. Respecting. “Okay,” I nod once.
Her brow lifts slightly, like she didn’t expect that to be so easy.
“I mean it,” I add, quieter. “I told you. I’m trying to do this right.”
Something shifts in her expression. Wariness loosens. Just a little. “One step at a time,” she nods. Not no. Not yes. Something in between.
I smile, slow and unguarded. “Yeah. I can work with that.”
We finish the day with one more showing. It’s not perfect, but it has potential. Sunlight. Quiet. A future she could grow into. When we step back outside, the city is glowing gold, late afternoon slipping toward evening.
“I had fun today,” she admits casually.
I glance at her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I smile, unguarded. “Me too.”
I walk her back to the station, watch her descend the stairs, the hem of my sweatshirt disappearing last. She turns once, halfway down, and looks back at me. “Thanks for waiting for me,” she waves before turning back around.
For however long it takes, I think. The train pulls away, and I stand there longer than necessary, chest tight with something that feels dangerously close to hope. Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t want the easy win.
I want her.
But I want her to want me back.