The next morning, Micah woke with a groan, his entire body aching as though he had been run over by an eighteen-wheeler truck. His neck was stiff, his back sore, and his limbs refused to move without protest. The blanket had slid halfway off the couch during the night and was now lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. His clothes had ridden up at the waist, exposing his back to the chilly air from the old AC unit, which was still wheezing in the corner. No wonder he felt like a piece of wood.
He dragged a hand over his face and slowly pushed himself upright, frowning.
He looked like a scarecrow, hair sticking up at odd angles, lips dry, eyes puffy with sleep.
When Darcy turned, this was what he saw.
"Oh, you're up." Darcy's voice echoed behind him.
Micah tilted his head stiffly, his eyes landed on Darcy, who was standing in the kitchen, dressed in a plain grey t-shirt and dark jeans, stirring something in a big pot.
"Morning," Micah mumbled, his voice hoarse.
