Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Mikey
Sound Of Silence
Lexxi Saal
The apartment goes quiet in stages. First, the front door clicks shut behind Dean and Sadie.
Then the low hum of traffic outside settles into something distant and constant, like white noise I’ve learned to live inside.
When Quinn retreats to her room, the door closes with a soft, deliberate sound that lands heavier than it should.
I stand in the kitchen longer than necessary, staring at the hallway like it might move on its own, and that’s when it hits me. Like I’ll see some sign that this isn’t real. That I didn’t just agree to let a woman I already kissed and can’t seem to get out of my system, live inside my space.
A short time later, the light under her door goes dark, and I assume she’s asleep.
This place has always been quiet like this, but it’s never felt full.
I’ve never had anyone here. Not really. No witnesses.
No expectations. No one who leaves shoes by the door or a toothbrush by the sink, making it feel like a shared thing.
No one who changes the air just by existing on the other side of a wall.
I rinse out the takeout containers even though they’re already clean enough to toss. I wipe down the counter that doesn’t need wiping. I move like if I keep busy, I won’t feel the hum beneath my skin. It doesn’t work.
Every sound registers. The faint creak of the floor. The whisper of the fridge cycling on. The awareness that there’s another person in my apartment who isn’t background noise, isn’t temporary chaos, isn’t a distraction. She’s just here.
I don’t turn the TV on. Don’t put music through the speakers. I don’t reach for a drink even though the fridge is stocked with enough beer and Red Bull to drown out most thoughts.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the couch and drag a hand down my face. This is a bad idea. Not the letting her stay part. That part makes sense. It’s practical. It’s helpful. It’s the kind of thing you do for someone who needs a foothold.
The bad idea is how aware I am of her presence.
How my body feels like it’s waiting for something I don’t intend to give it.
When I finally go to bed, I sleep badly.
Not because I’m uncomfortable, but because I’m too aware.
Too aware that a woman I crave, one who I already knows exactly what she feels like against me, is one room away.
I wake up twice for no reason at all, staring at the ceiling, listening. The apartment holds its breath with me. When morning finally comes, a pale foggy light creeps in through the windows like it’s unsure it’s welcome.
I don’t check the time. I already know it’s early enough that I’m guessing Quinn will still be asleep.
I tell myself I’m just getting up for water.
I end up making coffee. The machine hums quietly as it heats, and I lean against the counter, bare feet on hardwood, shirt abandoned somewhere between the bed and the bathroom.
This is habit. Muscle memory. Mornings before the road took over.
I don’t usually think about what I look like first thing in the morning, but now I do.
I hear her before I see her. The faint sound of her door opening.
Soft footsteps in the hallway. I straighten without meaning to.
She appears in the doorway, her long hair loose and rumpled, wearing a T-shirt that definitely isn’t mine but still hits something low and stupid in my gut.
Bare feet with pink toe nail polish. Sleep-soft eyes.
And suddenly, my apartment doesn’t feel like neutral ground anymore.
“Morning.” Her lips lift in a small, shy smile.
“Morning,” I clear my throat when it comes out rougher than I intend.
She steps into the kitchen, and the air shifts. I notice everything. The way she pauses like she’s gauging my mood. The way she takes up space carefully, like she doesn’t want to intrude. I hate that. I don’t want her to feel like that.
Coffee finishes brewing with a soft beep.
I pour her a mug without asking because I remember how she takes it, and that realization lands sharp and unwelcome.
I slide it across the counter. Our fingers almost touch.
Almost. Our eyes hold for the briefest moment instead before she slides the mug toward her.
“Thanks.” She flashes me a grateful smile, wrapping both hands around the mug like it’s grounding her.
We stand there, sipping coffee in silence that isn’t exactly awkward, but isn’t easy either.
It’s loaded. Quiet in a way that feels like the space right before a note lands.
I realize it’s the first time we’ve been truly alone since the thunderstorm.
“This okay?” she asks after a beat. “Me being here?”
The question is casual. Thoughtful. And it hits like a weight. “Yeah,” I reassure immediately. Probably too fast and I want to slap myself. “It’s fine.”
She studies my face. “You sure?”
I nod once. “I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.”
Her shoulders relax just a fraction. “I really appreciate this. I know it’s a lot.”
What she means is I’m sorry if this is uncomfortable. It’s not at all, and it aggravates me that she keeps thinking it is. I finish my coffee and set the mug down harder than necessary. “Are you going to be late?”
She smiles, small and genuine. “Yeah, I need to get ready.” And just like that, she walks back down the hall, leaving behind the faint scent of whatever it is she wears and something else that feels like trouble.
I follow behind a few minutes later, go into my bedroom to throw on a shirt, slide on some shoes, and then grab my keys and leave before I do something stupid, like go join her in the shower.
The studio feels different today. Not wrong. Just sharper around the edges. I sit behind my kit and run through warm-ups automatically, sticks tapping against drumheads in patterns I’ve played a thousand times. Luc paces. Dean tunes. Hayden watches everything like he always does.
“Loosen it up,” the producer calls through the talkback. “Let it breathe.”
I’d like to loosen him up, but I just grit my teeth and play tighter. Again.
“Still clamped,” Luc offering his thoughts. “You’re holding back.”
I bristle. “I’m not.”
Hayden’s gaze flicks to me. Too perceptive. “You are.”
I shoot him a look. “You want to take over?”
He shrugs. “You got this.” That’s the problem. I don’t.
We break for lunch, and I don’t linger. I don’t joke. I don’t reach for my phone even though I feel the pull. I don’t want to think about Quinn sitting at my kitchen table or moving through my space like she belongs there. Because part of me already thinks she does.
When I get home, the apartment feels different. Something warm and not at all familiar and I realize it’s food cooking. Quinn stands at the stove, sleeves pushed up, stirring something that smells like garlic and comfort. She turns when she hears the door.
“Hey,” she calls out. “I hope this is okay. I thought making dinner would be nice.”
The sight of her there, domestic, unguarded, hits me right in the chest. “Yeah,” I manage. “That’s amazing.”
We eat together, sitting at opposite ends of the island like we’re trying not to acknowledge how close that still is.
Conversation drifts easily; work, the city, the weirdness of starting something new.
She laughs at something I say, and the sound settles into my chest like it belongs there, and the urge to kiss her again slams into me. This is a problem.
Later, we end up on the couch without discussing it. We’re on opposites ends, almost making it too obvious how much we’re trying not to be too close. The TV is on but neither of us is really watching.
“Can I ask you something?” Her voice soft and tentative.
I nod. “Of course.”
“Why don’t you bring people here?” The question is her genuine curiosity. Not accusatory. Still, it tightens something in my chest.
“Because this is mine,” I explain again. “Because I don’t like being watched when I’m not on.”
She turns toward me, fully now. “You don’t seem very ‘on’ tonight.”
“No,” I admit. “I’m not. I don’t have to be here. That’s the point.”
“What about me watching you?” The air shifts. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Do you like it?”
Her question causes my heart to beat a little harder against my ribs, my tongue darting out to swipe against my bottom lip. I stare back at her instead of replying, not sure my answer would be appropriate.
She leans in. Not rushed. Not careless. It’s deliberate, like she’s thought about this.
Her breath ghosts over my skin, warm and steady.
I feel the pull like gravity, like inevitability.
Every instinct in me screams to close the distance.
To take what’s being offered. But I’m not sure if she’s just doing that thing where she flirts with me to test me.
My hand lifts. Stops on her cheek, which I cup gently. She leans into it. That’s the problem. “Quinn,” I exhale, low. “If I kiss you again…”
Her breath catches. Mine does too.
“I won’t stop this time.” Her pulse jumps under my thumb. And yeah, I feel that. “We already crossed a line. Twice.”
Her lips part as she releases a breath.
“And it’s getting harder to pretend that didn’t mean something.”
I let go and lean back even further, creating space that feels like a loss. “You’re still figuring this out,” I add, softer now. “New job. New city. New life.” I exhale. “I’m not going to be the thing that complicates that before you even get your footing.”
She stares at me, stunned, not hurt, not angry. Seen.
“Don’t get me wrong, Quinn. I want to kiss you. I want to do so much worse to you.”
Her breath stutters.
“But not like this.” Not fast. Not careless. Not something we pretend doesn’t matter the next day. “I’m not doing halfway with you.” I give a small shake of my head. “And whatever this is, it’s not halfway.”
“You’re saying no.”
“Yes.” Even if it’s the hardest thing I’ve said in a long time.
Her mouth drops open with clarity, and I stand and head down the hall before she can respond, before I change my mind, before control slips through my fingers. Because if I stay there another second, I will kiss her again. Consequences be damned.