Chapter 8 #2
I open my mouth to say yes, because that’s sensible. There’s power there. People. Noise. Distraction. Then thunder cracks overhead, so loud the windows rattle, and my body betrays me with a sharp inhale.
Mikey’s head turns toward me immediately. His eyes narrow slightly, not in judgment, just in focus. “You don’t like storms,” he observes on a quiet breath.
It’s not a question. Heat rises in my cheeks. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue. He just shifts closer. One cushion, not two, and slow enough that I can see the choice. He doesn’t invade. He doesn’t force. He simply closes some of the distance like he’s making himself available. “You don’t have to pretend,” his voice low. “Not with me.”
My breath catches for a different reason this time. “Why are you being nice?” I blurt, because it’s easier than admitting what his kindness does to me.
Mikey’s mouth quirks, amused. “I’m always nice.”
I give him a flat look.
“Okay,” he concedes. “I’m not always nice. But I’m not being fake either.”
The storm surges again, rain pounding the roof like it’s trying to get in, and the candle flames wobble. I glance toward the hallway instinctively, my shoulders lifting. Mikey follows my gaze, then stands. “You hungry?”
The question is so normal it throws me. “I guess?”
“Cool.” He heads toward the kitchen like he lives here.
Which is ridiculous. This is Dean’s house.
But Mikey moves through it with an ease that tells me he’s been here a lot.
He probably has. The band is like family.
Brothers in all but blood. I hear drawers open, cabinets close. The clink of dishes.
The storm rumbles again. I hate how relieved I feel just hearing him in the next room. Like sound itself is an anchor. When he returns, he’s carrying a plate of food, two glasses, and a bottle of red wine tucked under his arm.
My eyes widen. “Is that Dean’s?”
“Dean doesn’t drink wine. It’s probably Sadie’s.” Mikey smirks. “Plus, I figure you’ll throw me out if I open the tequila.”
“Tequila actually sounds pretty good right about now,” I joke.
He sets everything on the coffee table and lowers himself onto the floor, cross-legged like this is normal. “Come on. Picnic.”
I stare at him. “In the living room.”
“In the living room,” he confirms, unbothered. “Unless you want to go outside.”
I snort. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet I’m still here,” he reminds me, glancing up, amusement and something darker flickering behind his eyes. My chest tightens. I slide off the couch and sit on the floor across from him, close enough that the candlelight warms my skin.
The food is just some leftovers from the fridge; grilled chicken, salad, bread. It’s simple yet comforting. Mikey portions it out like he’s done this before, and I find myself watching his hands. Strong. Steady. He pours the wine into the glasses, offering one to me. I hesitate.
He shrugs, reading me easily. “Not trying to get you drunk. Just trying to make the storm less loud.” The way he says it like he understands the difference between fear and discomfort loosens something in me.
I take the glass, our fingers brushing, the electricity sparking under my skin not going unnoticed.
The first sip warms my throat, settles low in my chest. Not numbing. Just softening.
We eat slowly, talking about nothing at first. The apartment hunt.
Neighborhoods. A place he thinks I’d like because it has a bookstore around the corner.
A building with an old elevator that “has character,” which I inform him is code for “will trap you between floors and kill you.” He laughs, real and warm, the sound filling the candlelit room.
Outside, the storm continues, but inside, the quiet has shifted.
It’s not oppressive now. It’s intimate. At one point, Mikey reaches for the bread at the same time I do, and our fingers brush again.
My entire body reacts like it’s been zapped by the lightening outside.
I pull my hand back too quickly, and Mikey’s gaze flicks up.
He just watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“Sorry,” I murmur automatically.
He responds, voice low. “Don’t apologize for that.”
My throat goes tight. “For what?”
His gaze drops to my hand, then back to my face. “For reacting.”
My pulse stutters. I take another sip of wine, needing something to do with my mouth. My hands. Mikey’s eyes track the movement of the glass to my lips, and heat curls low in my stomach.
The storm cracks again, thunder ripping through the sky like a warning, and I flinch.
Mikey’s hand comes out without hesitation, covering my knee.
The contact is warm and solid, almost too much.
My breath catches. His thumb shifts slightly, a slow stroke against my skin that feels entirely intentional. “You’re okay.”
I nod, but I don’t pull away. The silence stretches, thick with things we’re not saying.
Mikey’s voice cuts through it, quieter now. “You moved your whole life here.”
“I did,” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. “That’s brave.”
My chest tightens. “You think?” I admit. “I hope I didn’t make the decision too quickly.”
“No,” he retorts immediately, like the word is instinct. “You didn’t.”
I swallow. “You don’t know that.”
Mikey leans back slightly, his hand staying planted on my leg. “I know you,” he states.
The words land like a weight.
“You don’t,” I counter, but the protest is weaker than I intend.
His mouth quirks. “I know enough.”
My heartbeat is loud in my ears. The candlelight flickers between us. Outside, rain slams the windows. Inside, the air feels too warm. “Why do you keep doing that?” I ask, softer.
“Doing what?”
“Showing up.” The question slips out before I can stop it. “You keep showing up when you don’t have to.”
Mikey’s gaze drops to our hands like he’s anchoring himself there. His jaw tightens once. Then he looks back up, eyes dark in the candlelight. “Why would you think I wouldn’t?”
My breath catches.
“But to answer your question,” he continues, voice rougher now, “I didn’t like the idea of you being here alone in a storm.”
“I’m not scared,” I blurt out defensively.
Mikey’s eyes soften and he smiles easily. “Never said you were.”
The way he gives me an out, lets me save face, makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
I laugh once, quiet and shaky. “You’re annoying.”
He blinks and it’s slow, his gaze assessing. “You like me.”
“I tolerate you,” I chide.
“Mm.” He takes a sip of his wine. “I’m growing on you.”
The storm surges again, and the house creaks faintly. The candle flames dance. My skin prickles. Mikey shifts closer, just a few inches. Not rushing. Not demanding. “Can I ask you something?” His head tilting as he openly assesses me.
I nod.
“Why do you push me away so hard?”
The question lands like a punch I wasn’t braced for. “I don’t do that,” I lie.
Mikey’s mouth twitches. “You do.”
I set my glass down carefully, buying time. “Because you’re, you,” I admit finally.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” His brow furrowing with the inquiry.
I exhale. “You’re charming. And loud. And you are definitely easy to look at.”
Mikey stills, his eyes meeting mine.
“And you flirt like it’s a reflex,” I continue, because the wine has loosened my tongue. “I just wonder if it’s you deflecting or if you really like me.”
His gaze sharpens. “I don’t deflect with you.”
I meet his eyes. “You are. You do. You did it at the station. You did it on the bench. You did it on tour.”
Mikey’s jaw tightens. His thumb strokes the inside of my knee again, slow. “I guess it’s because I want to know if you’ll bite back,” his voice low.
Heat curls through me. “That’s not fair,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees with a tilt of his chin. “But it’s the truth.”
The same words he used before. The same tone. I stare at him, my breath shallow. “You don’t get to use wanting me as leverage,” I repeat, needing the boundary like a rope.
Mikey leans in, close enough that I can feel his warmth. Close enough that the air between us feels charged. “I’m not using it,” he practically growls. “I’m offering it.”
My heart hammers. His eyes flick to my mouth. Back to my eyes. He’s so close I can count the freckles across his nose. “I could kiss you right now,” he says, voice low, controlled. “And hell, I want to.”
My pulse stutters. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t take. Just waits. And that, that might be worse. Because now I know. He will. If I let him.
The storm cracks overhead, loud enough to rattle the windows, and my body reacts on instinct with sharp inhale and I lean into him.
Not thinking. Not calculating. Just reacting.
His hand tightens at my waist, steadying me, and that’s all it takes.
I close the distance. And this kiss is different than the one on the street.
Slower, but deeper. Less surprise, and with more intent.
His mouth moves against mine like he’s been holding back for days, like he’s measured every second even as he leans into it. My fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring myself to something solid as the storm crashes around us.
It lasts longer than the first. Long enough to feel it. Long enough to know this isn’t just tension anymore. This is something else. And that, that is exactly why I pull back. My breath is uneven. So is his.
I inhale sharply, not from fear this time. From him. From the way he feels too solid to be real. If I’m honest with myself, I’d admit I like him. Instead, I do what I don’t want to. “Michael,” I whisper, his name slipping out like a warning.
His eyes lock onto mine. “Quinn?”
“Okay,” I whisper, shaking my head slightly like I’m trying to reset my own thoughts. “We can’t keep doing that like it doesn’t mean anything.”
His eyes stay locked on mine. “I never said it didn’t.”
“I know,” I admit, quieter now. “That’s the problem.”
His hand is still at my waist. I notice. He notices that I notice. And then, slowly, he lets go. That matters.
“One step at a time,” I say again, softer this time. Not a rule. A reminder. His mouth curves, but it’s not cocky. It’s something steadier.
“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m still here for that.”
He settles back on his side of the makeshift picnic, his posture tense like he’s holding himself in place through sheer will. I stare at him, my chest tight, my skin warm, my mind spinning. I cross my arms and the storm begins to ease, as if it’s listening.
The rain softens from a roar to a steady rhythm. The thunder moves farther away. In the quiet, after the almost-moment, we sit in candlelight, breathing through the tension neither of us knows what to do with.
Eventually, Mikey clears his throat. “If it makes you feel better,” his voice careful, “I’m pretty sure I just set a personal record for restraint.”
I laugh, the sound shaky but real. “Do you want a medal?”
He shrugs with a smile. “Some kind of prize would be nice.”
“I’ll see if I can think of something.” I chuff out a nervous laugh.
“I can give you some ideas if you want.” One side of his mouth kicking up in a coy grin.
I pick up my wine again and take a small sip, trying to reset my system. “Thank you.”
Mikey’s brow lifts. “For what?”
“For coming,” I explain. “For not making fun of me.”
His expression shifts, something protective and quiet settling there. “I would never.”
“But you absolutely could,” I counter, my voice gentle.
He smiles. “Okay. Maybe later. When the lights are on and you’re not adorable in candlelight.”
My cheeks warm. “I’m not adorable.”
“You are,” he assures me with a nod, like it’s a fact he can’t help acknowledging.
The storm fades into background noise. The candles burn lower.
And somewhere between shared food and a dark house and the way Mikey showed up without asking, and stepping back when I asked, I realize something terrifying; he’s not just attractive, he’s safe.
And wanting him, wanting someone like him, is definitely dangerous.
I didn’t come to Chicago to fall for Michael Sarris. But somewhere between thunder and candlelight, looking for apartments, and eating food he keeps bringing me, I can feel the universe mocking me.
And the worst part? I’m not sure I care.