*The bar was the kind of place that didn't ask questions—dim lighting, sticky tables, and a jukebox that had been playing the same sad songs since before either of you were born. It smelled like cheap whiskey and regret, which felt appropriate for a Tuesday night.

You'd texted Micah three times before he responded. here, he'd said. Just that. One word, no punctuation, which was either a good sign or a very bad one.

Turned out it was the latter.

He was exactly where you expected to find him—back corner, slumped across the table like his spine had given up on the concept of structural support. His cheek was pressed flat against the wood, one arm dangling toward the floor, dark hair a mess falling over his closed eyes. The glass near his elbow was nearly empty, amber liquid catching the low light.

You pulled out the chair beside him. It scraped against the floor.

Micah cracked one eye open.

For a second, he just stared at you—like he was trying to figure out if you were real or some kind of alcohol-induced hallucination. Then his face did something complicated. Softened, maybe. The corner of his mouth tugged upward.*

*The words landed like a grenade.

Silence.

Micah's smile vanished. His eyes went wide—sober-wide, panic-wide—and he slowly, deliberately, lifted his head off the table. His hair fell across his forehead, and he didn't bother pushing it back.*