6. Robin
ROBIN
When I woke up the following morning, the other side of the bed was empty.
For one disorienting second, disappointment hit me hard enough to actually annoy me.
Seriously? I stared at the ceiling while sleep and reality slowly caught up with each other.
Right. There was a Halloween party with a hot priest and life-altering sex.
Honestly, it still sounded fake in my head.
I rolled onto my side and looked at the rumpled sheets beside me, faint traces of cedar and warm skin still lingering against the pillows. He’d left. It was normal, expected even. This was a hookup, a very good hookup, but still a hook up.
And yet my first irrational thought was immediately, Well now I have to find his band schedule like a stalker.
I frowned at myself. Unacceptable behavior, Robin.
Then I smelled coffee. I froze. A second later came the unmistakable sound of something sizzling in a pan.
Oh. Interesting. I pushed myself out of bed, tugging on an oversized t-shirt as I wandered down the hallway still half asleep.
And stopped dead in the doorway to the kitchen.
Micah stood at the stove barefoot and shirtless, flipping French toast while coffee brewed beside him.
Morning sunlight spilled through the apartment windows in soft gold streaks, catching against messy blonde hair.
And now that he wasn’t hidden beneath stage lights and rolled sleeves, I could see his tattoo’s better.
A full sleeve wrapped down one arm in dark intricate ink I hadn’t fully noticed last night.
Pieces of galaxies and other space and Star Trek references I didn’t entirely understand.
Everything I learned about Micah kept contradicting the version I expected at first glance.
I just stood there watching him for another second.
Watching the easy way he moved around my kitchen like he belonged there already.
The way the sunlight caught against his tattoos while he flipped the French Toast. His mere existence in my apartment was alarmingly comfortable.
And what was even more weird was I didn’t find it intrusive. I found it… nice.
Micah caught me staring from across the kitchen and smiled immediately. My stomach did an annoying little flip.
Before I could prepare myself, he crossed the kitchen and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me gently against him while pressing a soft kiss to my mouth. The affection was easy, like he’d been kissing me casually in kitchens for years instead of approximately eight hours.
“You made breakfast,” I said, mostly because my brain needed safer territory.
Micah glanced toward the stove. “I worked with what you had.”
“I had leftover Chinese food.”
“You also had eggs and bread.” He shrugged. “French toast isn’t exactly fine dining.”
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You’re competent for a man in a band.”
He shrugged and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “That’s fair.”
“And you cleaned my kitchen.”
“I panicked after realizing you own approximately nine hundred expensive electronics and would probably know how to hide a body.”
“Correct.”
Micah grinned and leaned against the counter beside me while coffee brewed behind him.
“You know,” I said slowly, tracing my gaze along the ink, “I need to ask an important question.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Is your entire tattoo sleeve Star Trek?”
Micah looked genuinely delighted by the question. “Mostly.”
I stared at him.
He gave me a sheepish grin and nodded once. “There’s some astronomy mixed in.”
“Oh my god.”
“What? It’s cool.”
“It’s incredibly nerdy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I laughed softly and reached for the coffee mug he handed me. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m more of a Star Wars person myself.”
Micah gasped dramatically like I’d slapped him. “Absolutely not.”
“What?” I asked.
“That explains so much.”
I blinked. “What does that even mean?”
“You have strong dark side energy.”
“That feels rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
I took a slow sip of coffee. “Says the man with an entire sci-fi tattoo sleeve.”
“Star Trek believes humanity can become better.”
“Star Wars believes humanity is a delicate balance of light and dark.”
Micah pointed at me immediately. “Exactly. Is that why you identify with it?”
“I think I just want to hit someone with a lightsaber.”
He laughed under his breath and leaned slightly closer.
“And for the record,” he said quietly, “you definitely look like you’d be terrifying with a lightsaber.”
I smirked. “Are you flirting with me through sci-fi references right now?”
“I’m a science teacher. This is my strongest skillset.”
God. He was such a dork. A devastatingly hot dork. Which somehow kept making him more attractive.
Somehow breakfast turned into two more hours.
I wasn’t entirely sure when it happened.
One minute we were arguing about whether Han Solo or Spock would survive longer in a zombie apocalypse, and the next Micah was sitting across from me at my kitchen table talking so easily it felt less like a hookup aftermath and more like reconnecting with someone I’d known for years.
It should’ve felt awkward. Instead, it felt comfortable.
Micah talked with his hands when he got excited about something, which I discovered while he passionately explained why middle school science teachers deserved hazard pay and government-funded therapy.
“You’re underestimating junior high kids,” he said seriously. “They smell weakness.”
“What grade do you teach?” I asked.
“Eighth grade. It’s basically crowd control with occasional chemistry.”
I laughed into my coffee while he grinned at me over the rim of his mug.
I liked him. That realization settled heavily into my chest sometime between French toast and our debate over whether Ewoks would’ve enjoyed laser tag.
His phone buzzed against the table suddenly.
Micah glanced down at the screen and immediately sat up straighter.
“Shit.”
I blinked. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed one hand over his face before looking toward the stove clock. “I just completely lost track of time.”
I followed his gaze. 10:47 AM. Usually by this point after a hookup, I’d already reclaimed my space, reorganized my emotional walls, and already started killing zombies online.
Instead, I’d spent the morning flirting with a tattooed science teacher over coffee like we were starring in an indie romance movie.
“Sorry,” Micah said, already standing. “I, uh, promised Nate I’d help him move equipment this morning.”
“You’re helping people move after playing a Halloween gig?”
“I make terrible choices.”
“That’s becoming clear.”
He laughed softly while gathering the pieces of his costume from around the apartment.
Honestly, the visual nearly killed me. Black pants were hanging low on his hips.
His bare chest was covered in tattoos I still wanted to spend several uninterrupted hours investigating.
Blonde hair was still messy from sleep and my hands.
Then he picked up the priest collar. I lost the fight against my laughter instantly.
Micah looked at the little white tab in his hand and questioning look on his face.
“You look like a very exhausted youth pastor.”
“That is the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Recovering youth pastor,” I corrected.
“No. No youth pastor at all.”
I walked him toward the door still smiling when he paused suddenly beside it. And for the first time all morning, he looked genuinely nervous.
Micah rubbed the back of his neck once before meeting my eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Hm.”
“Would you maybe...” He smiled a little sheepishly. “Want to go to dinner with me tomorrow?”
There it was. Not another hookup. Not “hang out.” Dinner. A real date.
I crossed my arms loosely and pretended to think about it.
“Well,” I said slowly, “you did make me breakfast.”
“I did.”
“And your nerd credentials are unfortunately strong.”
“I work very hard on them.”
“Hm.”
Micah laughed softly. “Robin.”
I smiled despite myself. “Yeah. Okay.”
The relief that crossed his face was weirdly adorable.
We exchanged numbers while standing there in my doorway, both of us smiling like idiots by the end of it. Then Micah leaned down and kissed me one last time. Slow enough to make my pulse stumble all over again.
When he finally pulled away, he brushed his thumb lightly against my cheek. “I’ll text you later,” he said softly.
And somehow, unbelievably, I found myself already looking forward to it.
After Micah left, my apartment felt strangely quiet. I was trying very hard not to examine too closely. So naturally, I did what any emotionally stable adult woman would do after unexpectedly catching feelings for a tattooed bassist in a priest costume.
I took my coffee into my office to commit light cybercrime.
The glow of my monitors lit the dark room as I settled into my desk chair, oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder while I woke up my computer.
Most people probably decompressed after hookups with journaling or yoga. I preferred spreadsheets and morally questionable financial activity. I cracked my knuckles once and pulled up the encrypted backdoor access I’d built into Ascension’s systems.
It’d been almost two weeks since that night at my parents and it was still there, and still functional.
Honestly, it was embarrassing on their part.
For a church that loved talking about spiritual warfare, their digital security remained absolute trash.
A few quick commands later and their financial dashboard opened across my screen.
I scrolled the transaction history first.
GOOD SAMARITAN MISSION
Nothing was flagged. It had been filed neatly beneath outreach expenditures. And apparently no one had noticed a thing.
A slow grin spread across my face.
“Well,” I murmured to myself, lifting my coffee slightly toward the screen, “congratulations on your newfound commitment to social justice.”
I clicked through the reporting trail carefully, confirming everything still looked clean.
Somewhere across town, Lantern House had received enough money to breathe for a little while.
Maybe they could pay staff properly for once or replace those ancient washers Maggie kept complaining about.
They’d be able to keep some scared kid from sleeping in their car for another week.
The thought warmed my cold heart. I leaned back in my chair feeling deeply pleased with myself.
After one final check through the system, I logged out cleanly and wiped the access trail automatically.
Then, because balance was important, I opened Project Undead. Within minutes, my headset was on and digital gunfire exploded across my monitors while I loaded into a multiplayer match.
Sometimes self-care meant processing complicated emotions. Sometimes it meant shooting NPCs in the face while ignoring the fact that you were already hoping a man texted.
Both were valid.