When the officer said, "I've reviewed the security footage from the club as well as videos from witnesses. Would you like to press charges?"* and Damian simply replied, "No," Micah knew he'd spent the entire night thinking things over.
Micah had done the same.
While his boyfriend and his… whatever Callum was had been cooling off in a holding cell, nursing their bruises and their pride, Micah had spent the night in the waiting room of the station.
The officers had let him stay. In retrospect, he wasn't sure they cared—he was quiet, didn't take up much space and he didn't cause trouble, so they let him be. He'd spent the night with his hands in his lap, absentmindedly tracing the raised scars along his forearm and face, his mind circling itself like a snake eating its own tail.
He thought about the past. About the two men that had apparently shaped his destiny.
He thought about the fact that he was going to die.
Now, morning had arrived, painting the sky in hazy streaks of blue and gold, but the world still felt suffocatingly small. His body was heavy with exhaustion, but his mind was sharp, peeling back layers of memories and fears that he hadn't had the strength to face before.
A door in the station opened and Callum stepped out. Damian turned to look at him.
They stood mere inches from each other, their postures tense but no longer bristling with the anger from the night before. There was something unspoken between them, an uneasy truce forged through shared bruises and sleepless hours.
Callum nodded at Damian. Damian nodded back.
Then Callum's gaze landed on him.
Micah felt his stomach twist.
The longing in Callum's expression was impossible to ignore—the desperation still lingering in his dark eyes, as if he were silently begging Micah to choose him.
Even with Damian standing right there.
Even with their history and their blood-stained past lives.
Even with the absolute fucking mess that they had all made of things.
Callum was still searching for love in Micah. Not in the man he'd once but lost, but in Micah.
Micah didn't feel sorry for him. But the feeling was… akin to it.
He stepped forward and pulled Callum into a hug.
Callum stiffened for a moment, then melted into the embrace. His grip was tight, like he was trying to hold Micah together, keep him from slipping away. Micah could feel the slight chill of the melting ice pack still pressed to his back, the faint tremor in Callum's fingers.
"I'm sorry for ruining your birthday," Callum murmured against his shoulder.
"I'm sorry for making you worry enough to punch my boyfriend," Micah replied.
Callum produced a small laugh, humourless. More an exhale of breath than a real chuckle. When he pulled back, his almost-black eyes searched Micah's face, drinking in every detail.
"Take care of yourself, Micah Liu," he whispered.
Micah resisted the urge to say goodbye.
Instead, he turned and followed Damian out of the station.
---
Damian's penthouse suite was exactly as he had left it—clean, expensive, soulless.
The moment they stepped inside, Damian peeled off his shirt, letting it drop to the floor as he made his way toward the bathroom. He unbuckled his belt with one hand, already halfway to shedding the night off of him.
"What a night, huh?" he mused, his voice casual, like they had just gotten back from a particularly wild party instead of a public fucking brawl.
Micah didn't respond.
Instead, he headed toward the bathroom mirror, reaching up to take out his contacts. His eyes burned with exhaustion, dry and irritated. He squeezed a few drops of solution onto his fingers, blinking rapidly as the discomfort eased slightly.
'What a night' felt like a gross understatement for the shitstorm they had just endured.
It had been horrible.
Well, kissing Callum hadn't been too bad but, everything else…
And yet…
Micah felt like he should be grateful.
Ashur hadn't seen his 24th birthday. He'd been trying not to think about it, trying not to count down the days till Caelan got married and left him.
Death was painful and, now that Micah knew his untimely demise was inescapable, everything suddenly made more sense. Like an incomplete puzzle finally clicking together.
The close brushes with danger. The attack on the street. The explosion. The persistent dread in the back of his mind, whispering that no matter how good things seemed, they would not last.
The feeling that he was never meant to survive.
It made sense.
It had always been leading to this.
Micah had nearly thrown himself off the edge once, before he stumbled into Callum's home that night. He had been one second away from letting the weight of everything break him. And then things had gotten good. Easy. Almost happy.
He'd finished his game with Callum and eaten oats and fallen asleep like he'd not spent the previous night avoiding his own gaze in the mirror. He'd almost believed that life had more to offer him.
What a joke.
"Micah?"
Micah blinked.
Damian was standing beside him now, his body still damp from the shower, a towel hanging loosely around his waist. He was staring at Micah through the mirror, brow furrowed.
"You okay?"
Micah swallowed, glancing down. The eye drops were still in his hand.
"…What?"
Damian nodded at them. "You've been standing here, holding that, and staring at the mirror for like ten minutes."
Micah exhaled, shaking his head. "I'm fine." He held out the bottle. "Help?"
Damian took it without hesitation, tilting Micah's head slightly. His fingers pressed against the scarred side of Micah's face, warm, steady.
Micah inhaled sharply.
His summer-warm touch.
Damian carefully administered the drops, then wiped away the excess with a gentle graze of his thumb.
"There." His voice was quiet.
Micah stared at him.
His nose was still angry red, slightly crooked, swollen. His face was bruised, his lips split.
Micah should tell him. About the kiss. About Callum inviting him to play Pantheon with him again. He didn't lie to Damian, they didn't keep things from each other. Their entire relationship had been like that. No secrets.
Still, it was clear that there was so much between them that needed to be unraveled, so many words left unsaid.
He should tell him.
But Damian was looking at him with eyes full of something tender, something real, and Micah—Micah couldn't hold it in anymore.
He kissed him.
Damian inhaled sharply against his lips, then winced as Micah accidentally brushed his nose.
Micah jerked back, wincing as well. "Shit. Sorry."
Damian smirked, his hands already pulling Micah closer again. "It's fine." His voice dropped lower. "Trying to finish what we started?"
Micah shivered as Damian kissed him again, walking him back out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. His hands roamed Micah's body, seeking, claiming.
But this wasn't what he wanted.
Micah grabbed his wrists, stilling them. Damian pulled back, an eyebrow raising in question.
Micah shook his head. Leaning in, he whispered against Damian's ear, "I want to make love to you."
Damian's breath hitched.
Micah had never said that before.
Because that wasn't how it went between them. Damian always took charge when they were in bed. Always fucked him like he was searching for something sacred in him, something just beyond his reach—like screaming a prayer into an empty church.
But Micah—
Micah wanted to be the one searching this time.
And he wanted to be gentle.
Micah placed his hands against Damian's chest and gently pushed.
Damian let himself fall backward, sinking onto the mattress, his towel slipping slightly as he sprawled out beneath Micah.
Micah climbed over him, straddling his waist.
Damian's bruised lips parted, his breath uneven. "Micah…"
Micah bent down, pressing a kiss to his lips—soft, deliberate. Like a prayer. Like a confession.
He pulled back just enough to meet Damian's eyes.
"Let me," he whispered. "Please."
Damian's fingers flexed against his thighs. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
Then, finally—
He nodded.
And Micah kissed him again. Like it wasn't their last night together.