Page 391 of End Game

His mouth curves. “Missed you too.”

I kiss him again.

Shorter.

Then look over his shoulder. “My bag.”

“You dropped it.”

“I got distracted.”

“No shit.”

It takes another fifteen minutes to collect everything.

In the car, Micah reaches across the console before we're even out of the parking garage.

I look down.

His hand is on my thigh.

I lace our fingers together, and neither of us says anything about it.

We hold hands almost the entire way home.

Sometimes intimacy is apparently extremely boring.

I love it.

“So,” Micah says eventually. “Was it what you thought?”

I look out the windshield. “No.”

His thumb moves over mine. “Bad no?”

“Opposite.”

I tell him about the song.

Not all of it.

He's heard pieces already through calls and texts.

But saying “Austin thinks it's making the album” while Micah is sitting beside me makes it real in a different way.

Micah smiles.

Not huge.

Micah doesn't really do huge unless somebody's bleeding and survives or Dex Mercer finally follows basic instructions.

But he’s obviously proud.

Fuck.

“I knew you'd be good.”

“That is deeply unhelpful now that I have evidence.”