Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Quinn
Hello Love
Benson Boone
Warmth wakes me first. Not sunlight. Not noise. Something solid under me, steady and quiet, rising and falling in a slow rhythm that doesn’t belong to sleep anymore. My eyes blink open slowly.
The TV screen is dark now, the room washed in pale morning light filtering through the windows.
A blanket sits half-tangled around my legs.
My cheek rests against something firm. And I realize it’s his chest. Memory trickles back in pieces.
Pizza. The movie. Talking without really talking.
Falling asleep. My breath catches softly.
Mikey’s arm lies heavy around my waist, his hand relaxed like it settled there without thinking.
His chin brushes the top of my head. The steady beat of his heart thumps warm and calm against my ear.
I go still. Is he awake? As if he feels the shift, his fingers move slightly, slow and absent, like he’s making sure I’m real.
“Morning Q.” His voice is rough with sleep, low and quiet against my hair.
I tilt my head just enough to glance up. His golden eyes are already open, soft in the morning light, no trace of teasing or playfulness. Just calm. “You didn’t wake me.”
A small shrug lifts beneath me. “You looked comfortable.”
Something tightens in my chest. I should move. Sit up. Make a joke about drooling on him or stealing his body heat. Instead, I stay exactly where I am. His thumb brushes once across my side. It’s not suggestive, just gentle.
“You sleep okay?”
I nod against him. Too okay. The sunlight catches on his face, highlighting the rough edge of stubble along his jaw, a softness in his expression I’m not sure I’ve seen before. Or maybe I just never noticed.
He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle me, his hand moving up to brush hair away from my face.
The gesture is slow, almost hesitant. Then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head.
Nothing more. No heat. No demand. Just affection.
Like he’s already decided this matters too much to rush.
My stomach flips. Because that’s somehow worse.
Better? I think so. Confusing? Definitely.
I wait for him to move closer. For something to change.
Neither happens. He just rests there, easy and steady, like this is enough.
Why isn’t he kissing me? The thought slips in before I can stop it. I want him to. God, do I want him to.
Instead, he shifts again, stretching carefully, his arm sliding away as he sits up. “You want coffee?”
Just like that. Normal. Like I didn’t just spend the night in his arms. I blink at him, still half wrapped in warmth and confusion. “Yeah, sure.”
He stands, offering me a hand automatically. I take it, letting him pull me up from the couch. My body sways slightly from sleep and he steadies me without thinking, palm warm against my side. The contact lingers a second longer than necessary, his eyes locking onto mine. Then he steps away.
I watch him walk toward the kitchen, easy and relaxed, like nothing about last night or this morning feels complicated to him. Maybe it doesn’t. I sit back down and curl my legs beneath me again, watching the sunlight stretch across the floor.
He’s affectionate. He’s careful. He’s being unbelievably kind.
And somehow, that makes the distance between us feel sharper.
Because now I know exactly what’s on the other side of it, and because I don’t want careful anymore.
I want the part of him that stole my breath away when he kissed me.
The part that looked at me like he was barely holding on.
From the kitchen, the sound of the coffee grinder churns softly. He hums under his breath, something easy, familiar. Which is dangerous, because this is starting to feel like home. And I’m not sure when that happened.
I sit curled at the edge of the couch, watching him without meaning to. Bare feet. Messy hair. One hand braced against the counter while he pours. So domestic. Dangerously domestic. Dangerously easy.
He glances back over his shoulder. “You want toast or something?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
He carries a mug over to me, our fingers brushing when I take it. No hesitation. No lingering. He seems so at ease. “I’m gonna grab a shower.” He flashes me a quick smile and then strolls in the direction of his room. When did he become a grown up?
The train ride later feels louder than usual.
People crowding in. Conversations overlapping.
The metallic screech of the tracks filling the spaces between my thoughts.
I replay the morning in my head. The warmth of him behind me.
The soft kiss to my hair. The way he didn’t push for anything.
Why does that feel like rejection? It’s not.
I know it’s not. And that somehow makes it more confusing.
It should feel safe. And it does. That’s the conundrum.
Work is steady but exhausting in the quiet way that comes at the beginning of any week.
Meetings. Notes. Conversations that require more patience than I feel like I have today.
At lunch I escape. Fresh air hits my face as I walk without a plan, hands shoved into my coat pockets.
The city hums around me with traffic, voices, and the distant rhythm of construction somewhere nearby.
My phone buzzes. It’s Sadie. I hesitate before answering. “Hey.”
“How are you feeling today?” Her voice is warm, knowing. Too knowing.
“I’m fine.”
A pause. “Why does that sound like a lie?”
I laugh softly. “I’m just tired.”
She hums thoughtfully. “You and Mikey good?”
The question hits when I know it shouldn’t. “Yep. Still good.”
Another pause. I can practically hear her smile through the phone. “Just checking.”
I change the subject quickly, asking her what she has planned for the week, about Dean, about anything else. When we hang up, I keep walking. And that’s when I see it. A small sign in the window.
Studio Apartment — Available Now
I stop without meaning to. The place isn’t fancy. It’s a standard brick building with big front windows. A coffee shop on the corner. Close to the train. Walking distance to my office. It’s practical, and appears safe. And possibly mine? Before I can overthink it, I push the door open.
The apartment is on the third floor and it’s small but bright. Sunlight spills across hardwood floors. A narrow kitchen. Enough space for a couch, a table, bookshelves. I stand in the middle of the room imagining quiet mornings. My own routine. My own space.
No blurred lines. No more mornings like today. No falling asleep in his arms and waking up to wanting more. No wondering if and when the gorgeous man I’m living with will kiss me again. The thought twist in my gut. Not relief. Not even close.
The leasing agent talks numbers. Availability. Move-in dates. I nod along, barely listening. When I leave, a card sits tucked into my pocket, I tell myself it’s just information. Nothing more.
When I get back to Mikey’s place that evening, the hallway smells like something warm and savory. I pause outside the door, surprised. I step inside and Mikey looks up from the stove. “You’re home.”
There’s something about the way he says it, simple and genuine, that makes my pulse pick up a few notches. Like I belong here. Like it’s already been decided. “You cooked?”
He shrugs, stirring something in a pan, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Believe it or not, I do possess more skills than just banging a pair of sticks.”
The apartment feels softer tonight. Music low in the background. Lights dimmed. Plates already set on the table. He moves around the kitchen with easy confidence, tasting sauce, adjusting heat, completely at home. I lean against the counter, watching. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.” The same words I used last night. He smiles slightly without looking at me. “I wanted to. We broke from the studio early today.”
We eat at the small table, talking about nothing important. Work stories. Studio chaos. Something funny Luc said. His laugh comes easier tonight. Mine does too. The weird energy from the morning lingers. But it’s not awkward, just, unfinished.
At one point our knees bump beneath the table and neither of us moves away.
This feels easy. Too easy. And the card in my pocket suddenly feels heavier.
I should tell him. I almost do. The words sit right there, ready.
I looked at the perfect apartment today.
And I already know why I don’t say them.
Because if I say them, this ends. Or, at the very least, it changes.
And I don’t like either of those outcomes.
But he’s smiling at something I said, relaxed and happy in a way that makes the room feel safe. The words die before they reach my mouth. Not tonight. Tonight feels too good to complicate.
So, I smile back, reaching for my glass. And quietly, carefully, I decide to keep that piece of information to myself. For now. Before I do something I can’t take back.