Chapter 298: A Fleeting Warmth in the Cold
Micah walked to the window, each step slow and deliberate, as if the act itself was a way to stall his thoughts. He pushed the curtain aside and peered down into the cold night air. Clyde was still out there, standing on the deck like some statue placed for decoration.
Micah pursed his lips. The man wore only a shirt, sleeves rolled up, the pale fabric catching the faint flash of moonlight. His coat was nowhere in sight.
"For how long does he plan to stay there?" Micah mumbled under his breath, the words escaping in a soft puff that fogged the glass for a second.
Irritation filled his mind. No, not just irritation. It was angry, yes, but the kind of anger sharpened by guilt. Clyde had kept things from him, serious things, and that betrayal still pained him. But alongside that was this stupid thought that maybe he had gone too far. He had snapped at Clyde too harshly.
The man had been caught between his friend’s nonsense and Micah’s sharp tongue, and now stood alone in the cold because of it.
Micah exhaled sharply, the sound tight and short. He unlatched the window, the hinge creaking faintly, and pushed it open.
The cold rushed in as he leaned against the frame. From above, he had a clear view of Clyde, broad shoulders slightly hunched, head lowered as though deep in thought. So deep, in fact, that he didn’t flinch at the sound of the window.
Micah scanned the room behind him, his gaze stopping on a blanket draped across a chair. His hand moved before his thoughts could catch up. He grabbed it while his mind filled with the man outside. The sight of Clyde’s hunched shoulders through the night air made something in him twist, part irritation, part reluctant concern. With a quick motion, he balled it in his hands and aimed. His arm swung forward with more force than necessary, and the blanket shot through the air, thudding against the deck just behind Clyde.
The muffled impact woke Clyde up from his daze. He turned at the sound, gaze lifting slowly, from the thrown blanket to the open window, until his eyes locked on Micah’s.
Micah rested his elbow against the windowstill, his chin placed lazily in his hand as if he hadn’t just ambushed the man with bedding. A faint smirk spread on his face. "You planning to get revenge on me by freezing yourself to death? I don’t want to get accused of murder for a human ice block on the deck tomorrow morning."
Clyde said nothing. Didn’t even shift. He just stood there, eyes fixed on Micah, and for a moment the silence between them seemed to thicken with things unsaid.
Micah’s smirk faded. He couldn’t stand the way Clyde was looking at him. It was too much. Too bare. There was a silent longing there, unmistakable and raw, but a trace of hurt, regret, and indulgence swirled in it. Too many emotions. But Micah could recognise all of them. Because they mirrored his own feelings.
Micah straightened, pointed to the blanket. "Use that," he said, voice tight.
But Clyde didn’t move.
Micah’s jaw tightened. "Then, at least come up before you turn into some tragic ice sculpture," he said, and without waiting for a reply, he pulled the window shut with a snap.
On the deck, Clyde bent to retrieve the blanket. The fabric still held the warmth of Micah’s touch, smelling faintly of citrus. He ran his thumb along the edge, then turned toward the door. His limbs stiff from standing in the cold, but his pace quickened with every step, thawing his frozen heart, building an urgency carrying him across the threshold and up the stairs until he reached the suite.
By the time he arrived, there was a slight rise and fall to his chest, not from the walk, but from something heavier pressing inside.
He knew Micah needed him, just as much as he needed Micah. He cared for him, cherished him, and felt something far more precious still...
Inside, Micah sat on the edge of the bed, hands loosely clasped. He was debating whether to hide under a blanket pretending to be asleep or flee to the bathroom. Both options were ridiculous, cowardly even, but the idea of facing Clyde without knowing what to say made his pulse quicken. What was he doing? Playing a game of tag? Pulling and pushing? He felt stupid. But his emotions had already devoured his functioning brain cells.
But before he could decide, a knock sounded at the door.
Micah jolted, standing up. "Come in," he called before he could think better of it.
The door swung open, and Clyde stepped inside. His gaze locked instantly onto Micah’s, and there was a weight in that stare that pinned him in place. Clyde closed the door behind him, and in just two strides, he reached Micah.
Micah remained motionless. Clyde’s presence was different now, serious, intense, almost oppressive. It made his mouth go dry and sent a strange ripple down his spine.
Without hesitation, Clyde lifted his hands, cupping Micah’s face with a firm gentleness that kept him from looking away. The cold bit into his skin, startling him. Micah’s breath caught, not from the chill alone, but from the realisation of just how long Clyde must have been out there.
"You’re freezing," he murmured before he could stop himself, but Clyde didn’t seem to hear. His thumbs brushed along Micah’s jaw, steady and deliberate despite the shiver running through his fingers.
"Micah," Clyde said, his voice low but edged with urgency, "Listen to me for a second... before you get angry again." His eyes searched Micah’s, steady and unflinching. "I wanted to tell you downstairs... But you didn’t give me a chance. I would never let someone ridicule you in front of me and walk away unscathed. You have to believe me. I am not good at showing what I feel or think. But it’s not because I don’t feel it."
Micah swallowed slowly, listening carefully.
"It wasn’t like I didn’t care about you throwing me out," Clyde continued, his voice toughening at the edges. "Or saying you didn’t want to look at me. Those words...they hurt. Believe me, they hurt like hell. But I know I was wrong. I had broken your trust the moment I hid that I knew you were Asena. I went behind your back, pretending to be someone else, convincing myself I was helping you when I wasn’t."
His grip on Micah’s face eased, but he didn’t pull away.
"Please," he said, softer now, "don’t give up on me... I have never loved anyone before, and I have never been loved. So if I’m clumsy with it, if I get it wrong..." His voice faltered, leaving the unfinished thought hanging in the space between them like fragile glass.
Micah’s breath hitched. The words lodged in his chest, sharper than expected. Deep down, he had never considered it the way Clyde described. He never tried to put himself in Clyde’s shoes. Trying to understand where he was coming from. Someone had never been loved... the words made his mouth feel bitter.
Never been loved? What about his parents? Family? What did that mean?
Micah’s gaze softened despite himself. His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he gave the smallest nod.
Clyde’s shoulders eased visibly. The tension in his brow smoothed, and a faint relief flickered in his eyes. He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, until his lips brushed against Micah’s forehead in a kiss so gentle it barely seemed to touch.