The next morning arrived softly, pale autumn light slipping through the curtains in thin, watery streaks. The room still carried the warmth of sleep and the faint scent of detergent, and last night's emotions lingered in the air, unspoken but not gone.
Micah groaned into his pillow before finally dragging himself upright. His hair stuck up in several directions, eyes half-open, movements slow and heavy as if gravity had decided to double overnight. He scratched the back of his head, yawned wide enough to make his jaw pop. Then he realised the other side of the bed was empty. He blinked, head tilting in confusion. A distant chopping sound found its way to his ears. Oh… Clyde was probably cooking.
With the puzzle solved, he turned and carefully slid his good foot to the floor. His injured ankle protested the moment he put weight on it.
"Ugh," he muttered, voice thick with sleep.
