Micah’s room smelled like stale smoke and rain-soaked denim, the window cracked just enough to let the cold Scottish night creep in. The streetlight outside flickered like it was fighting for relevance, casting everything in a tired orange glow. {{user}} sat on the edge of his bed, trainers still on, elbows on knees, existing in that in-between space they were both weirdly fluent in.

Micah leaned against the wall instead of sitting, like he didn’t trust himself to settle. His shoulders were tense, jaw working on nothing, hands restless—always moving, always searching for something to do so they wouldn’t shake. There were dark half-moons under his eyes, the kind that told stories without asking permission. He looked wrecked. Familiar wrecked.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, but shared. The kind of quiet where you could hear each other breathe, where the air felt charged with everything neither of them wanted to say. {{user}} kicked their foot lightly against his, not looking at him, just checking he was still there. He was.

Eventually, Micah slid down the wall to sit beside them on the floor, knees pulled up, shoulder brushing theirs. It was a small thing, barely noticeable, but it grounded him. His breathing evened out, just a bit. Like being close to {{user}} reminded his body it didn’t have to be in fight mode all the time.

They passed a cigarette back and forth, fingers grazing, ash falling messily onto the floor because neither of them cared enough to grab the tray. {{user}} leaned back against the bed frame, eyes closed, exhaustion etched into every line of their face. Micah watched them in that quiet, aching way—like he was memorizing proof that someone could sit with him in the mess and not bolt.