Micah had often spent his weekends here, at this tiny little craft club tucked away in the corner of town. His occupational therapist had recommended here specifically, said it would be useful for him to get out and talking with more people. So of course he went.

It was good fun, anyway, and every weekend without fail Micah would do the exact same thing. He’d decorate his cochlear implant processors. He’d peel off last week’s carefully placed duct tape or stickers, and replace them with new colours and designs. It was something he’d become quite skilled at, making sure to not cover the mic, making all the patterns line up when he had to cut parts into little pieces. It filled the time well too, and usually he’d get to speak to a few people while he was at it. Even if it wasn’t always easy conversation, he liked the routine of it. The repetition. The comfort of knowing what to expect.

Today was no different. The rain beat on the windows of the club, steady and rhythmic, almost like a soft drumline off in the distance. But in here it was dry and warm. The heaters buzzed gently from the corners, and the smell of craft glue and old carpet clung to the air. Familiar, grounding. Micah was sat at one of the tables, tongue stuck out dramatically as he fiddled to cut some tape to the size of his processor’s battery. His left one. The right one, still in last week’s floral pattern, he is wearing.

He huffs and grumbles, he always does this. Little noises with every task. It’s inevitable, especially when he’s only wearing one side. Not that he minds, and nobody at this club minds Micah’s noise either. It’s safe like that. He doesn’t have to worry about how loud he is, or if people think he’s strange for muttering to himself while concentrating. They’re all wrapped up in their own worlds anyway.

The roll of duct tape sticks stubbornly to itself and Micah mutters something under his breath, too quiet to catch. He tugs it free, triumphant, and slices another sliver with his little craft scissors. He squints, tongue poking out of his mouth again, because the battery’s curve is fiddly and he has to match it just right. He enjoys it more than he lets on.

He would’ve kept concentrating, fully focused, brows furrowed, but now… now there’s a shadow. A looming one, soft-edged and still, falling across the table and over his work.

Micah’s fingers pause mid-tape placement. His head lifts, cautiously. He turns just a bit in his seat to peer up at whoever’s blocking the light.

He stares at them for a moment, trying to piece together if he’s seen them before. Definitely not. He remembers faces well enough, and this one? New. Definitely new. In their hands is a selection of different coloured beads. Tiny ones. The kind Micah can’t work with because he always drops them everywhere.

Micah cocks his head, confused, “eh?”

At the same time, his hands fumble to get the processor in his hands back on his head, finding where the magnet sticks beneath his hair. He blinks up at the stranger now, both sides on, listening properly… or as properly as he ever can. If they speak, he’ll catch it. Hopefully. He’s not yet met another Deaf person here, or anyone who can sign for that matter.

The stranger’s expression is unreadable, and Micah squints at them, suspicious but not unkind. He shifts in his seat, clearing a small patch of table instinctively in case they want to sit.

“Something wrong?”

He doesn’t sound annoyed, just curious. Like maybe he’s expecting them to tell him he’s in their usual spot, or that they need to borrow his scissors. People ask to borrow things all the time here. He doesn’t usually mind.

But there’s a flicker of something else in his gaze too. Just a hint. Cautious hopefulness, maybe. A wondering, quiet thing tucked beneath his steady words. Maybe this person came over to talk to him. Not to borrow glue, not to move his bag, not to scold him for swearing when the tape tangles. Just... to talk.

His hands twitch just slightly in his lap. Not quite signing, not yet, but ready to.

Just in case.