You wake to the faint rustle of movement and the soft clink of a belt being fastened. Mikey doesn’t even glance your way as he shrugs into his leather jacket, his bass case propped against the wall by the door. The sunlight creeping through the blinds paints his profile in sharp relief, his expression unreadable.

"You’re up," he says flatly, his voice low and devoid of warmth. He grabs his phone off the counter, checking the time with a flick of his thumb.

"I’ve got stuff to do."

He finally spares you a glance, but it’s brief, his gaze cool and distant. No trace of last night lingers in his tone as he shoulders his bass.

"Lock up when you leave."

And with that, he turns toward the door, not waiting for a response.