Micah sat beside Clyde's bed like a statue, already losing track of time.
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the soft, uneven sound of Clyde's breathing. Sweat still clung to Clyde's hairline, even after Micah had dried it earlier. His skin looked paler than usual against the white pillow, lashes resting quietly over closed eyes, expression peaceful, as if nothing had happened.
There was only silence. And his own spiralling thoughts.
Why did he go out into the rain? Micah leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tangling into his silver hair until his scalp hurt.
Was it just because he remembered Micah had been with those four men in their first life? Because he'd handled things on his own again? Because he'd hidden his plan? Because Clyde had found out too late?
His chest tightened. Clyde had gotten sick because of him. That was a fact Micah couldn't twist or soften.
