"Your hair's getting long," Nick murmurs, his voice a rumble I can feel through his chest.
"Mm," I manage, too drowsy and too content to form actual words. "Haircut...eventually."
"I like it," he says, and his fingers brush against the nape of my neck, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.
I should definitely move now. The touch feels too good, and I'm too tired to maintain my usual careful boundaries. But Nick doesn't seem to notice anything unusual, his attention back on the movie, and I'm selfish enough to stay exactly where I am, soaking in his warmth.
My last coherent thought before drifting off is that something feels different tonight, like the standard routine we've built over nine years is shifting into something else entirely. But that's a problem for tomorrow's Micah. Right now, I'm exactly where I want to be, even if it's not in the way I wish it could be.
Safe in the arms of my best friend, letting myself pretend, just for these few stolen hours, that this could be something more.
Nick
Iwake up with a crick in my neck and a warm weight pressed against my side. For a disoriented moment, I can't quite place where I am or why my bed feels so uncomfortable. Then I blink away the sleep and reality comes into focus: I'm on my couch, the TV screen dark, and the weight against me is Micah, fast asleep with his head tucked against my shoulder.
Sunlight streams through the half-closed blinds, painting stripes across his face. His breathing is deep and even, one hand curled loosely in the fabric of my shirt. I should probably wake him—my arm is starting to go numb where it's trapped beneath him—but I hesitate.
In sleep, all the tension Micah carries has melted away. His light brown hair falls across his forehead, and I resist the strange urge to brush it back. There's something different about the way he smells this morning. Still that familiar clean, slightly sweet scent that's uniquely him, but with a warmer note underneath. Richer.
I inhale without thinking, then catch myself.What am I doing?This is Micah. My best friend since high school, my college roommate, the guy who's seen me at my absolute worst and still chooses to spend his weekends with me. And here I am sniffing him like some creep.
Yet I can't help comparing this moment to Wednesday night with Sophia. Sitting across from her at dinner had been awkward. Forced. A constant effort to maintain conversation and connection. This, waking up with Micah pressed against me after falling asleep watching a movie, feels effortless. Natural.
Micah stirs, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks before he opens his eyes. For a second, he looks as disoriented as I feel, then awareness floods his face, followed immediately by embarrassment.
"Shit," he mumbles, pushing himself upright and away from me. "I fell asleep on you. Sorry."
"No big deal," I say, rolling my shoulder to get feeling back. "Not the first time, won't be the last."
He runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, making it stand up in endearing tufts. "What time is it?"
I check my phone. "Just after nine."
"God, we slept on the couch all night? Your back must be killing you."
I stretch, feeling the satisfying pop of my spine. "Worth it for that movie. What did we even watch?"
"Something with robots? I think? I was out before the first act ended."
I laugh, standing up. "Coffee?"
"Please," he groans, stretching his arms above his head. His t-shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of pale skin above his sweatpants. I look away quickly, suddenly and inexplicably flustered.
In the kitchen, we fall into our Saturday morning routine like we have a hundred times before. Micah shuffles in behind me, heading straight for the refrigerator while I measure coffee grounds. He gets out plates and silverware without being asked, knows exactly where everything is, moves around my kitchen like he lives here.
Which, honestly, he basically does on weekends.
I'm cracking eggs into a bowl when the front door opens.
"Yo, Nick! You up?" My brother Jason's voice carries from the entryway.
"Kitchen," I call back, not bothering to ask why he's here so early on a Saturday. Jason operates on his own schedule, one of the perks of being a freelance graphic designer.
He appears in the doorway, a portfolio case slung over his shoulder, then stops, taking in the scene: Micah setting the table, me at the stove, both of us still in our clothes from yesterday.
A slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. "Well, well. Domestic bliss looks good on you two."
I roll my eyes. "What do you want, Jase?"