Micah stirred, blinking up at the ceiling where a soft glow of light illuminated the semi-dark room. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. The dull ache in his stomach and the back of his throat reminded him. The street food. The excruciating pain, and the disorientation.
He sat slowly, groaning. His IV tugged at his right hand. He glanced to his left and saw the newly wrapped gauze. Yeah. The one Darcy wrapped was stained with blood from vomiting. On the sofa beside the bed, Emile was curled up in a ball, his cheek squished against a folded coat. His chest rose and fell slowly, lips parted in sleep.
Micah rubbed his eyes, unsure how to feel. He and Emile had fought only hours before. Yet here he was, staying by his side. That, well, never had happened before.
He shifted, feeling the pressure from his full bladder. He swung one leg groggily, and the bed suddenly made noises.
