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I take another sip, pretending to think. “Avoidant drummer with an energy drink addiction and a suspiciously comfortable couch.”

Mikey laughs, and its real laughter, warm and unguarded, and it loosens something in my chest I didn’t realize was tight. “Your turn,” he says. “What’s your brand?”

I blink. “My brand?”

He nods. “Yeah. You’re always labeling people. Label yourself.”

My mouth opens with a response ready, but it stalls. Because labeling myself means admitting the thing I’ve been trying not to admit since I walked into this apartment. That I’m not just starting a job. I’m starting a new life. And this, this forced proximity with Mikey might matter in ways I haven’t decided how to manage.

“Competent,” I offer.Safe. Controlled. Not reckless enough to do something like this… except, shit I did.

Mikey’s eyes soften, and he nods like he expected that. “Yeah. You are.”

His voice is quiet. Not teasing. Just true. My chest tightens again. I look away first, because I don’t trust myself to hold his gaze too long. Outside, the city wakes up. Inside, we stand in his kitchen, both of us pretending this is ordinary, pretending the air isn’t charged with the awareness of how close we are.

I take one more sip of coffee to try to anchor myself in the practical. “Thank you again,” my voice steady. “For letting me stay here.”

Mikey’s jaw shifts like he’s swallowing something. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.”

His eyes lift to mine again. “Okay,” he accepts softly. “Then, you’re welcome.”

A beat passes. Then he glances at the clock. “Are you going to be late?”

I blink. “Right.” I turn toward the hallway, and I feel his gaze on my back as I walk away, but it’s not the look of a man who’s thinking about sex. It’s the look of a man who’s thinking about what it means that I’m here at all.

I close my bedroom door, heart beating just a little too fast. And for the first time since I agreed to this arrangement, a thought blooms in my mind with uncomfortable clarity: This was supposed to be simple. Temporary. Logical. It’s already not. And I think, I knew that before I walked through the door, and did it anyway.

Chapter Eleven

Mikey

Sound Of Silence

Lexxi Saal

The apartment goesquiet 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 theroad 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.