Micah slept like a baby until noon, limbs warm and lax, breathing slow and even, tucked snugly against Clyde's chest. The room was lightly dimmed, not because of a thick curtain but because of the cloudy weather. The steady patter of rain against the windows echoed in the bedroom. The smell of rain-soaked earth drifted in through the cracked balcony door, masking Clyde's sandalwood scent. Micah had his cheek pressed against Clyde's collarbone, one arm draped lazily over his waist, fingers curled as if afraid the man might disappear the moment he let go.
When he had crawled into the bed the night before, he had hesitated for a long moment at the door. The guest room had been prepared. The sheets were clean. The distance was respectable, reasonable and safe.
But after countless lifetimes of separation, after dying alone, walking alone, yearning alone, Micah simply couldn't bring himself to sleep apart from the man.
