The heater in Toby’s Volvo had a smell. It was specific—burning dust and something sweet, like old coolant. Micah focused on that smell because if he focused on the words hanging in the air between them, he was going to throw up. Physically throw up. On the dashboard. Which would be a disaster, because Toby kept his dashboard clean, unlike the rest of his life.
"Say something," Toby said. His voice was low. Controlled. That was Toby’s whole thing. He was a producer; he managed sound levels for a living. He knew how to compress a scream into a whisper. He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles looked like polished marble, but his tone was steady, terrifyingly reasonable.
Micah picked at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans. It was black denim. Stiff. He’d bought them because Toby said they made his legs look long. "I don’t… I don’t know what you want me to say, Jules."
"I want you to agree," Toby said, and he finally looked over. The streetlamp outside—sodium orange, flickering against the falling snow—cut across Toby’s face. High cheekbones, dark eyes that usually looked tired from staring at Pro Tools screens until 4 AM, but now just looked resigned. "Micah. Look at me."
Micah didn’t look. He looked at the windshield. There was a yellow slip of paper tucked under the wiper blade. A parking ticket. They’d been parked here for twenty minutes. The meter had run out while Toby was explaining, in bullet points, why they didn’t work anymore. The logic of it was crushing. It was a production meeting for a cancelled tour.
"You think we’re unhappy," Micah whispered. His throat felt like he’d swallowed sand. He adjusted his beanie, pulling it down over his ears, a nervous tic he’d had since high school.
"I know we’re unhappy," Toby corrected. He shifted, the leather seat creaking. It was a loud sound in the small space. "I’m at the studio six nights a week. You’re… you’re lonely, Micah. You’re miserable. I come home and you’re asleep on the couch with the TV on, waiting for me. It’s not… it’s not fair to you."
"I don’t mind waiting," Micah said quickly. Too quickly. He sounded desperate, which made his skin heat up. He hated that. He hated how his body betrayed him. His face was probably bright red. "I like waiting. I get work done. I finished the album art for The Solstices last night while I was waiting."
Toby sighed. It was a heavy, rattling exhale. "That’s the problem. You build your whole life around the empty spaces I leave behind. That’s not a relationship. That’s just… structural support."
Toby reached out, his hand hovering over the center console. For a second, Micah thought he was going to touch him. Micah’s breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary intake of air. He wanted that hand. He wanted Toby to grab his neck, pull him over the gearshift, and kiss him until this stupid, logical conversation disappeared. That’s how it usually worked. The spark. It was always electric, physical, overriding the brain.
But Toby pulled his hand back. He turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered, then caught. The vibration hummed through the floorboards and into the soles of Micah’s canvas sneakers.
"Let’s just go inside," Toby said. "It’s freezing."
The drive around the block to their actual parking spot was silent. The radio was off. Usually, Toby had the local college station on, critiquing the mix of whatever indie track was playing. *The snare is too dry. The vocals are muddy.* Tonight, there was just the rhythmic *thwack-thwack* of the wipers clearing the snow, smearing the view of the slushy Chicago street.
Micah felt the panic rising in his chest, a physical pressure expanding under his ribs. This was real. This wasn't a fight about dishes or Micah forgetting to text back. This was the end. He felt untethered, like an astronaut whose cable had just snapped.
They got out of the car. The wind cut right through Micah’s jacket—a vintage bomber he’d stolen from Toby’s closet three months ago and never gave back. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering violently. It wasn't just the cold.
Toby walked ahead. He always walked ahead. He had that long, purposeful stride, head down, shoulders hunched against the wind. He held the door to their building open, waiting. He didn't look at Micah as he passed. He looked at the floor, at the dirty tile of the vestibule.
The apartment smelled like coffee grounds and vinyl. It was a messy, lived-in smell. Micah’s drafting table took up half the living room, covered in markers, tablet pens, and scraps of paper. Toby’s guitar stands were in the corner. Their lives were physically braided together. Untangling it seemed impossible.
Toby tossed his keys into the bowl near the door. The *clink* sounded like a gunshot.
"I can sleep on the couch," Toby said, not taking off his coat. He stood in the middle of the room, looking out of place in his own home. He looked big, solid, and completely unreachable.
"Don't," Micah snapped. The anger flared up, sudden and hot, masking the hurt. "Don't be noble. It’s your apartment. Your name is on the lease. I’m the one who has to…" He trailed off, looking at his bookshelf. "I have to pack."
"Tonight?" Toby frowned. The mask of composure slipped, just a fraction. His brow furrowed. "Micah, it’s 11 PM. You don't have to leave tonight."
"I can't stay here!" Micah’s voice cracked. He hated it. He sounded like a child. "I can't sleep in the same bed with you and not touch you. I can't sleep on the couch listening to you breathe in the other room knowing you don't want me anymore."
"I didn't say I don't want you." Toby took a step forward. The intensity was back. That dark, possessive gravity that Micah had orbited for two years. "I said we don't work. There’s a difference."
"That’s semantics!" Micah threw his hands up. He backed away until his hip bumped against the drafting table. A cup of pens rattled. "If you wanted me, you’d fight for this. You’d try. But you’re just… you’re editing us out. Like a bad track. Cut the frequency. Clean up the noise."
Toby flinched. It was small, just a tightening of his jaw, but Micah saw it. He knew every micro-expression on that face.
"You think this is easy for me?" Toby’s voice dropped, rougher now. "You think I want to come home to an empty house? But look at you, Micah. You’re vibrating. You’re constantly anxious. You check my location on my phone when I’m late. You don't eat if I don't cook. You’re fading away. I’m doing this because I can’t watch you disappear into me anymore."
Micah opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The truth of it slapped him. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. When was the last time he’d gone out with friends without Toby? When was the last time he’d drawn something that wasn't for Toby’s clients?
He leaned back against the table, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a hollow ache. "I just love you," he whispered. "Why isn't that enough? In the movies, it’s enough."
"We aren't a movie," Toby said softly. He closed the distance between them. He stopped a foot away. Close enough to smell the cedarwood cologne he wore. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. "We’re just two guys who are bad for each other."
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. The radiator hissed in the corner, a metallic rattle that usually drove Micah crazy, but now sounded like the only familiar thing left in the world.
Micah turned around and grabbed his messenger bag from the chair. He started shoving things into it blindly. His laptop. A sketchbook. The charger. He didn't know where he was going. Probably Leo’s place. Leo had a futon and didn't ask questions.
"Micah, stop," Toby said. " seriously. Wait until morning."
"No." Micah grabbed a handful of t-shirts from a laundry basket—clean, dirty, he didn't care—and stuffed them in. "If I stay, I’ll talk you out of it. Or you’ll talk me out of being mad. And we’ll have sex, and we’ll pretend it’s fine, and three months from now we’ll be back in the car. I can’t do the car again, Jules. I can’t."
Toby didn't move to stop him. He stood there, arms crossed over his chest, anchoring himself. He was letting it happen. He was the wall, and Micah was the wave crashing against it and receding.
Micah zipped the bag. It was bulging, awkward. He looked around the room one last time. The poster for the 'Neon Dust' tour he’d designed was framed on the wall. Toby had framed it. He said it was the best thing Micah had ever done.
"The cat," Micah said, confused for a second. "Wait, we don't have a cat."
"We don't have a cat," Toby agreed gently.
"Right. Okay." Micah rubbed his eyes. "I’m going."
He walked to the door. His sneakers squeaked on the hardwood. He stopped with his hand on the knob. He waited. He waited for the sound of Toby moving, for the grab at his elbow, for the Hollywood moment where Toby says it was all a mistake.
Behind him, Toby took a breath. A long, shaky inhale. "Take the winter coat," he said. "The blue one. It’s colder than it looks out there."
Micah closed his eyes. That was it. Practical care. The kind that kept you warm but didn't keep you close.
"I have my jacket," Micah said.
"That bomber is thin. It’s barely a windbreaker. Take the parka, Micah. Please."
Micah turned. Toby was looking at him with an expression of such raw, unguarded pain that it felt like a physical blow. It was the gap—the contrast between the calm producer and the man who was currently ripping his own heart out to save Micah from himself. Toby’s eyes were wet. He wasn't crying, but he was close.
Micah walked back, grabbed the heavy blue parka from the hook, and put it on over his bomber. He felt ridiculous, like a stuffed bear. He felt warm.
"Thanks," Micah mumbled.
"Text me when you get to… wherever," Toby said.
"I will."
Micah opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. The air in the corridor was stale, smelling of someone’s burnt popcorn. He didn't look back. He heard the door click shut behind him. The lock turned. *Click.*
He walked down the three flights of stairs, his bag bumping against his hip. Outside, the snow had picked up. The world was quiet, muffled by the fresh white layer. The streetlights were hazy orbs.
He walked past Toby’s Volvo. The yellow ticket was still there, flapping slightly in the wind, trapped under the wiper blade. It was already getting wet, the ink probably blurring.
Micah stopped and looked at it. A seventy-dollar fine. For parking in a loading zone. For staying too long in a place you weren't supposed to be.
He reached out, his fingers numb in the cold, and snagged the ticket from under the wiper. He didn't know why. He just didn't want Toby to come out in the morning and see it first thing. It seemed like a small, stupid mercy.
He shoved the wet paper into his pocket, balled his fists inside the oversized sleeves of the parka, and started walking toward the train station. The snow crunched under his feet, loud and crisp. He felt sick. He felt lightheaded. But as he turned the corner, out of sight of the apartment windows, he took a breath. The air was sharp, biting, and clean. It hurt his lungs. He took another one.