Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Mikey
Good
Better Than Ezra
I feel it before I understand it. The apartment is quieter, but not the good kind. Not the kind that settles you into yourself. This is absence masquerading as peace, and my body clocks it immediately, like it knows something is wrong before my brain catches up.
Quinn isn’t avoiding me loudly. She’s doing it efficiently.
Her shoes are gone when I wake up. The counter is wiped clean, like she’s trying to erase any proof she’d been there at all.
Her coffee mug, my extra mug, is rinsed and placed carefully in the drying rack, not abandoned where I left it yesterday.
Her bedroom door is closed, bed made so tight it looks untouched. Too untouched. Erased.
I stand in the kitchen longer than necessary, staring at the space she’s been learning how to occupy, and something in my chest tightens hard enough to piss me off.
I don’t even know what I’m angry at yet, just that it feels like something important slipped out of my hands while I was pretending I had control and wonder for the thousandth time if I should have just shut the hell up and kissed her again.
This is my fault. I replay the moment on the couch like a broken track, the way she leaned in without hesitation, the certainty in her movement. The heat of her breath against my mouth. The way my body reacted like it had been waiting for permission.
And the way I stopped it. My hand around her cheek. Gentle, but firm. Like restraint was the only thing holding me upright. Stupid. And so not like me to be cautious.
If I kiss you, I’m not going to stop. Christ. I’m such a fucking dumbass. I grab my keys and leave before the quiet convinces me I imagined everything.
The studio usually fixes me. Noise. Rhythm. Control. Today it doesn’t. I play too tight, the beat clipped and sharp like I’m afraid of letting it expand. Like if I loosen my grip, everything else will spill out with it.
Luc catches it immediately. “Relax,” he commands through the talkback. “You’re playing like you’re bracing for impact.”
“I am relaxed,” I snap, harsher than I mean to.
Dean’s brow jumps as he glances at me from across the room. “You sure the fuck aren’t.”
Hayden doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches. He always watches, like he’s filing things away for later. We take a break, and I retreat to the corner of the room, towel draped around my neck, heart still racing like I ran instead of played.
“You’re spiraling again.” Hayden steps up beside me.
I scoff. Because he’s not wrong. And I hate that. I deny it anyway. “No, I’m not.”
He tilts his head. “You stopped drinking. You stopped joking. And you’re playing like control is the only thing holding you together. All things that aren’t you.”
“You psychoanalyzing me now?” I bristle. “Cause I get plenty of that at home these days.”
He takes a beat. “I’m noticing,” he clarifies. “Same thing you do to everyone else.”
That shuts me up. Hayden exhales slowly. “Whatever’s going on, you don’t have to white-knuckle it. We’re here for you.”
The words land heavy. I leave the studio early. By the time I get back to the apartment, it’s already dark outside. The lights are on inside, but the space still feels guarded. Quinn’s bag is by the door, proof she exists here, but her presence is muted by silence.
She’s sitting at the kitchen island with her laptop open, glasses on, hair pulled back tight. Focused and professional. Her armor. The same mouth I can’t stop thinking about. Yeah. Not helping. “Hey,” I lift my hand in a quick wave.
She looks up, polite smile snapping into place like muscle memory. “Hey.”
That fake smile is worse than silence. I drop my keys on the counter. “You eat?”
“Yep,” she answers immediately.
I don’t believe her.
She closes her laptop with deliberate finality. “I was just heading to my room actually. I’m exhausted.”
There it is. The retreat. I step into her path, not touching her, not crowding her, just enough that she has to acknowledge me. “Quinn.”
She stops; shoulders tight. “Michael, I really-”
“No,” I cut in, calm but firm. “We’re not doing this.”
Her brows knit. “Doing what?”
“This.” I gesture between us. “The polite distance. The pretending nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened that should matter.” She corrects; jaw tight.
That hurts more than I expect. I release a slow breath, grounding myself. “I was trying to do the right thing.”
Her chin lifts. “And doing me is not the right thing?”
“For fuck’s sake.” I rake a hand through my hair and stalk a little closer. “Is that what you think? That I don’t want you?”
“Seems pretty clear.” She nods, crossing her arms over her chest.
I step closer, not invading, but undeniable. Close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, the tension she’s pretending isn’t there.
“I stopped because I didn’t want to pretend,” I grit out.
She laughs softly, incredulous. “Pretend what?”
“That it would be nothing.” My voice drops. “When I already know it’s not.”
She takes a small step back, her eyes darting to my mouth. “That sounds noble. It also sounds like an excuse.”
She’s pushing back because I know she feels it too. My jaw tightens. “For what?”
“For not choosing,” she fires back. “For wanting something without taking responsibility for it.”
That one lands deep. Because it’s close enough to the truth to hurt. “I chose not to fuck this up,” I grumble, frustration bleeding through. “There’s a difference.”
She shakes her head, eyes shining now. “I don’t need someone protecting me from myself.”
“You sure about that?” My question is harsh, but I’m also angry now. “You knew I wanted to hook up with you when we were in New York, and again at our last show in Chicago. You were sure happy to flirt with me in both places. And then you shut me down the second I followed through.
I step closer, placing a hand on the counter and lean into her. “I’m just supposed to roll over and be your boy toy because you’ve decided you want me now? Forgive me for wanting to take a beat to figure that shit out.”
Her eyes pop wide as she stares up at me, her mouth opening, then closing. The silence stretches, thick and electric, both of us breathing too shallow.
“Believe me when I tell you I want you,” my voice drops. “Especially after I already know what your mouth tastes like. But I’m also not going to be stupid.” That honesty cracks something open between us.
She doesn’t deny it. That matters. She swallows. “This was supposed to be simple.”
“I know.”
“And now it’s not.”
“No,” I chuff softly. “Now it’s honest.” For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to close the distance. I don’t move, and neither does she.
“I’m sorry,” she looks into my eyes, voice barely steady. “I’m embarrassed that I let this get further than I planned.”
“You don’t have to do that. Hide.” I shake my head and take a step back from her. “Please don’t.” I take a small step back. “We said one step at a time. I’m trying here.”
“Okay.” She whispers.
Something in me settles. Not calm. But resolve. She looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
“I’m going to my room now.” She places a hand on my arm and gives it a quick squeeze. “Because I’m exhausted and because it’s been a shitty day. I promise I’m not hiding.”
I look down at her hand. That small contact? So not helping. I look up and meet her gaze. “We good?”
“We’re good.” Her fingers trail off my skin as she walks away and down the hall. The door clicks shut. I stand there long after, heart pounding, apartment buzzing with everything I said. I should feel relief. I should feel steadier.
Instead, I feel like I just crossed a line I can’t uncross. This isn’t restraint anymore.
We’re way past that. The next time one of us breaks, it’s not going to stop with a kiss.