After the Fire
Sunlight bled in through the blinds.
Micah stirred, blinking against the ache in his head, the stiffness in his body, and the strange warmth at his side.
He wasn't alone.
The bed sheets were tangled. The air smelled like rain and bourbon. His body ached in places that memory was still catching up to.
Then—
He turned.
Sky sat beside the bed, fully dressed, sipping coffee, watching him with unreadable eyes.
Micah swallowed hard.
"You stayed," he croaked.
"I had to," Sky said softly. "You were drugged. Sweating. Barely coherent. You don't remember much, do you?"
Micah tried to sit up, flinched. "Fragments. The bar. The water. Then..."
His voice trailed off. But the heat in his face, the tension in his jaw—he remembered enough.
Sky said nothing for a moment. Then:
"I didn't touch you unless you touched me first."
Micah's eyes flicked to him, sharp and pained. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't lie," Sky cut in, voice still calm but firm. "Not now."
Micah stared at the ceiling.
He didn't deny it.
"I lost everything yesterday," he whispered. "The company. My plan. Muri left without saying goodbye. I have nothing."
Sky stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the skyline. "You have one thing."
Micah frowned. "What?"
Sky turned. "Me. If you stop pushing everyone away long enough to realize it."
The room went quiet.
And in that silence, Micah felt something foreign rise in his chest—hope, maybe. Or fear disguised as something gentler.
Sky picked up his coat. "Rest. Think. But next time you kiss me… do it sober."
And with that, he left.
Micah sat in the aftermath.
Naked. Raw.
And for the first time…
Seen.