Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mikey
Cliche
MGK
The apartment is dark when I finally get home. It’s after midnight and my shoulders ache from hours behind the kit, the steady thrum of bass still vibrating somewhere in my bones. I close the door quietly behind me, dropping my keys onto the counter, letting the silence settle.
It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that makes me immediately aware of her impending absence. I kick off my shoes and run a hand through my hair, glancing toward the hallway. A soft glow spills from one of the rooms. It’s faint, warm, almost hesitant.
My chest tightens. I didn’t think about this all day. Okay, that’s a lie. I thought about it constantly. The apartment. The call. The way she looked at me when I told her.
I tell myself staying late at the studio made sense. But standing here now, I know I wasn’t just working. I was over thinking. Definitely avoiding. The floor creaks under my weight as I move down the hallway, slowing instinctively.
Two doors. One slightly open. The other closed.
My breath catches before I even realize why.
The door to my room is open. I step closer, peering inside.
She’s there. Curled up in the middle under the blankets, hair spread across my pillow, breathing slow and even.
One arm tucked beneath her cheek like she fell asleep waiting for something she won’t admit she was waiting for.
Something inside me eases. I don’t even realize I was holding tension until it melts.
She chose this room. My bed. She chose us. I lean against the doorframe, just watching her for a long moment. The soft rise and fall of her breathing. The way she’s tangled in my sheets like she belongs there. The thought hits quiet but hard. I want this.
I step inside carefully, moving slow so I don’t wake her. The mattress dips when I sit on the edge, and she shifts, a sleepy sound slipping from her lips. Her eyes blink open. Confused at first, then soft.
“You’re home,” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, fingers lingering longer than they need to.
“Sorry I woke you. It’s late.”
She shakes her head slightly, already drifting again, and turns toward me instinctively. Like this is normal. Like this is where I’m supposed to be. I stare at her for a second longer before standing again. I’m not ready to sleep yet. My head’s too full.
The kitchen light is harsh after the softness of the bedroom.
I grab a beer out of the fridge and lean against the counter, staring out at the city lights as I take a sip.
The weekend replays in flashes. Her laughter in the kitchen.
Her hand in mine at the market. The vendor’s voice.
Didn’t realize you had a girlfriend. My hand finding her back before I even thought about it.
That word, girlfriend, still sits heavy in my chest. It’s not bad.
It’s just big. I’ve never done the girlfriend thing.
I thought staying late would clear my head.
It didn’t. If anything, it made everything louder.
Because the truth is simple and uncomfortable.
When I heard about the apartment, something twisted inside me.
And it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even jealousy.
It was the quiet realization that I’d started imagining her staying.
Without ever saying it out loud. I rub a hand over my face, exhaling slowly.
We never talked about what this is. Never defined anything.
Why would we have? It’s still so new. We only just slept together this past weekend.
Yet somehow, I still feel disappointed. The realization makes me laugh quietly. I’m in deep.
I finish my beer and finally head back to the bedroom. She’s shifted again, sprawled across my side of the bed now, stealing space like she’s been doing it forever. I smile despite myself.
I strip out of my clothes and slide under the covers. I move slow, trying carefully not to wake her, but the moment I settle, she scoots closer automatically, warmth pressing against my side.
Her hand lands on my chest, fingers brushing lazily like she’s not fully awake yet. “Hey,” her voice soft and sleep-heavy.
“Hey,” I whisper back, turning slightly toward her. She shifts closer, leg sliding over mine, her face tucking into my neck like she belongs there. Like she’s been doing it for longer than a weekend.
Her lips brush against my skin, slow and absent at first. Then not.
My hand finds her waist, tugging her closer as she tilts her head up, mouth finding mine in the dark.
The kiss is different like this. Slower.
Softer. But somehow deeper because there’s no hesitation between either of us. Just instinct.
She moves against me, and yeah, that gets my attention. I let out a quiet breath against her lips, hand sliding along her back as she presses closer, the warmth of her impossible to ignore.
“Quinn,” I’m not even sure what I’m going to say, but it doesn’t matter because she answers by kissing me again. That’s it. That’s all it takes. Everything else fades. The quiet. The tension, The thoughts. It all just becomes her. And the way we keep finding each other without trying.
Later, when we finally settle again, she’s curled into me, breathing slow and even like she never fully woke up at all. And I’m lying there staring at the ceiling knowing one thing for sure, this isn’t casual anymore.
Morning comes too fast. Light creeps through the blinds, soft and pale.
I wake before the alarm, Quinn still curled against me, her hair tickling my chin.
For a moment I just lie there. Yesterday’s tension feels distant now, softened by the quiet reality of her still being here.
I don’t move. I don’t want to ruin it. Eventually she stirs, blinking sleepily up at me.
A smile spreads slowly across her face. “Hey.”
“Hey beautiful.”
Her fingers trace absent patterns across my chest, and the simplicity of it hits harder than any grand gesture ever could. No expectations. No labels. Just this. I brush my thumb along her jaw, watching her eyes drift closed again.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Reality knocking. I groan softly and reach for it, glancing at the screen. Luc telling me bring coffee when I come to the studio. Asshole. Like I’m his damn errand boy.
I set it back down without texting back. She watches me quietly. “You need to get to the studio?”
“Eventually.”
She hums softly, settling closer. The moment stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous. Because the longer we stay here, the harder it’s going to be when we have to talk about real things. Like apartments. Like what this means. I push the thought away. Not yet.
After coffee and quiet conversation that never quite touches the thing sitting between us, she leaves for work. The apartment feels different when the door clicks shut behind her. It feels too empty. I stand there for a second, staring at the space she just occupied.
And it hits me all over again. I don’t want this to be temporary.
I don’t want to be the guy who lets something good slip away because he’s afraid to say what he wants.
But I also don’t know how to say it yet.
So, I grab my keys and head back to the studio, hoping noise will drown out the thoughts chasing me.
It doesn’t. The entire day, I keep thinking about one thing. The way she chose my bed. She chose us. Not because she had to. Because she wanted to. And somehow, I know that says more than anything either of us has said out loud.