Summary: One of the Secret Intelligence Service's most gifted operatives returns from lunch to find every member of his office murdered. Hunted by his own agency and branded the prime suspect, he has no one he can trust except the handler assigned to him. He's in a race against time to uncover the conspiracy before they find him.
Word Count: 2.4K
A/N: I know some of my older projects never reached the finish line, so I'm doing this one differently. This is a complete three part story, and I can't wait to share all of it with you.
Burn Notice is a conspiracy thriller inspired by Three Days of the Condor.
Secret Intelligence Service, MI6 Headquarters
85 Albert Embankment, Vauxhall
"I need analysis plans from you all by the end of the week." The section chief reached for the remote, and the last satellite image faded from the wall of monitors.
Half-empty mugs of coffee sat between classified briefing binders as officers gathered their tablets and notebooks.
Aaron closed his laptop, slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, and rose from his chair.
He glanced down at his phone while gathering his laptop and a classified folder. Beyond the glass, rain blurred the Thames.
"Think Southgate believes any of us actually read the seventy-page appendix?" Murray Mercer asked, stepping beside Aaron.
"I did."
"You're the reason the rest of us look bad."
Aaron picked up his things and headed toward the exit.
"You heading out?"
"Trying to."
"You and that Tuesday lunch. One day you'll miss it."
"Maybe.”
Aaron headed toward his desk, weaving around colleagues crossing between cubicles. He slowed as another officer pushed a trolley stacked with archive boxes across the aisle.
Conversations overlapped across the operations floor as analysts drifted between glass meeting rooms carrying classified folders and coffee.
“Aaron.”
“Novak.”
A tall, ginger-haired man strode down the carpeted aisle, tapping the tops of cubicles as he crossed toward Aaron, a blue lanyard dangling against the stack of folders in his hand.
"Catch the match last night?"
“Caught the highlights. Tons of work to do.”
“You must come out to the pub next time.”
Aaron grinned. "Peter, you lot party harder than anyone I know."
He dropped the briefing folder beside his keyboard and set his laptop on a stack of papers.
“A Scot in my blood through and through,” Peter called out as he continued down the hall.
Aaron pulled his rain jacket from the back of his chair, straightened the framed photograph of his family in Curaçao tucked beside his monitor, and checked the time once more.
"Curaçao?"
Aaron glanced up. A blonde woman stood beside his desk holding a stack of papers and a cup of coffee.
“Yeah, family vacation.”
“God, don’t we all need one of those,” she groaned.
"I mean, a vacation. Not the family part." She laughed. "Sorry."
Aaron reached for his wire-rimmed glasses and slipped them back on before zipping his jacket.
"Olivia." He smiled. "I understand."
Olivia opened her mouth, stopped, then laughed instead. "Right. Of course you do."
Aaron gave her a quick pat on the shoulder and headed toward the elevator.
He scrolled through his messages as he passed screens cycling through international headlines while analysts compared satellite imagery beneath the fluorescent lights.
He flashed his access card against the reader beside the glass security door leading to the sixth-floor corridor.
"Pierre."
Aaron looked up as a colleague caught up beside him.
"Leaving already?"
"Harry, it's twelve-thirty."
Harry fell into step beside him.
"You know, one day I'd like to beat you to the food trucks.”
Aaron smiled and pressed the down button.
"You'd have to skip the meeting before lunch."
Harry laughed.
“About that—”
He glanced down at his watch, then back up at Aaron.
"Are you free after lunch?"
"For what?"
"Martin wants another pair of eyes on the Baltic report."
"I'll come by."
DING.
The elevator doors slid open, already half full. Another dozen officers shifted just enough to make room as Aaron stepped inside.
“What floor?”
"The lobby, please. Thank you."
He checked his watch as the elevator stopped floor after floor, filling with officers who barely looked up from their phones.
DING.
Officers filed out of the elevator, splitting left and right as they headed toward the security gates.
"Arsenal this weekend?"
Aaron sighed dramatically as he flashed his security pass against the reader and waited for the steel barrier to slide open.
"Lester, my man,” Aaron grinned. “I thought we were pretending that match didn't happen."
“Okay, okay,” Lester laughed, waving him off.
"Same time tomorrow?”
"Am I really that predictable?" Aaron smiled as he slipped his access badge into his jacket pocket.
"For an intelligence officer? Yes," Lester replied. "But I won't hold it against you."
"Thank you." Aaron nodded and continued toward the glass doors. Beyond them, gulls circled above the Thames before disappearing into the low gray clouds.
A cool breeze rolled off the Thames the moment the glass doors opened. Aaron descended the entrance steps, pulled up his hood, and stepped beneath the tiered green glass and limestone façade of SIS headquarters.
Beyond the security poles and concrete barriers, office workers spilled across Albert Embankment in every direction, brown paper bags and umbrellas in hand.
Double decker buses hissed to the curb, their doors folding open and sliding closed as tourists climbed on and off speaking French, German, and Spanish.
"Excuse me, is that Big Ben?" A girl in a yellow rain jacket asked as Aaron strolled past a group of tourists taking photos across the river.
“That way.”
“Thanks.”
He turned left along the Thames, passing benches overlooking the river. Across the water, the Palace of Westminster disappeared behind fog and rain as people hurried beneath umbrellas toward Vauxhall Bridge.
A City Cruises boat sounded its horn somewhere along the river. Aaron glanced over just as a cyclist rang their bell, narrowly avoiding a tourist, before continuing toward the line of food trucks serving civil servants from nearby government offices.
"Gyro, white sauce, bottle of water today?"
An older man with a long salt and pepper beard called out, flipping the last of a row of meat on a sizzling stovetop grill.
Aaron grinned and stepped closer.
"You've been keeping track?"
"You've ordered the same lunch every Tuesday for six months."
Aaron smiled as he took the paper bag through the serving window, sliding exact change into the man's hand.
"I should probably branch out."
The older man snorted as he reached for another pita.
"You won't."
Aaron thanked him, bottle of water in one hand, paper bag in the other, and stepped away from the truck.
“I might surprise you one of these weeks, Mr. Omar.”
"I'll believe it when I see it."
The older man shook his head, already reaching for the next order.
"See you next Tuesday."
Aaron raised the bottle of water and stepped back into the flow of pedestrians.
The lunchtime crowds had only grown thicker.
Civil servants clutched umbrellas and hurried back toward nearby government offices as the rain poured.
"Dad, is that Parliament?"
"No, that's the... I actually don't know."
Aaron smiled as he watched the man studying a damp, upside down map of London beneath an umbrella while the little boy pointed excitedly toward a building disappearing into the fog.
"Can you see Big Ben from here?"
"I think so? Wait, let me check."
Aaron slowed near the river wall, taking another bite of his lunch as a City Cruises boat pushed through the gray water below.
Across the Thames, the clock tower at the Palace of Westminster rang out across the river.
He finished the last bite of his gyro, crumpled the wrapper into a nearby trash can, and kept walking.
Buzz.
Harry: Still good for after lunch?
Aaron typed a quick reply as he walked.
Aaron: On my way. Give me ten.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket as a gust of wind swept along the embankment. Aaron pulled his hood a little tighter and crossed back toward the familiar green glass exterior rising above Albert Embankment.
A pair of tourists stopped just outside the security perimeter, angling their phones toward the green glass façade.
"Is this really MI6?" one of them asked.
Aaron smiled to himself as he passed.
He climbed the steps toward the entrance, crossed beneath the green glass canopy, and stepped inside.
He lowered his hood, reached into his jacket for his access card, and joined the steady stream of officers returning from lunch, umbrellas dripping onto the marble floor as the security barriers admitted them one by one.
Aaron held his card against the reader until a green light flashed and the barrier slid open.
A few officers crossed toward the elevators with coffees in hand while another hurried through the revolving doors, rain still dripping from his coat. Aaron tucked his phone into his pocket and stepped into the first elevator that opened.
“What floor?”
“Six.”
The doors slid shut and the elevator climbed in silence as Aaron watched the numbers tick up in red.
DING.
When the doors opened, Aaron stepped into the sixth-floor elevator lobby. He held his access card against the scanner beside the glass security door and stepped inside when the light turned green and the lock clicked.
To the left of the main aisle, the briefing room door still stood open. Southgate's handwriting was scrawled across the whiteboard near the front of the room.
He slipped his phone into his pocket and continued down the main aisle. The secure conference rooms lining the back wall remained closed, their red OCCUPIED lights glowing above each door.
The television screens hanging above the analyst desks cycled through international headlines.
He passed analyst desks where half-finished coffees sat beside glowing monitors.
RING.
Michael Oliver remained at his workstation, back to the aisle, shoulders slightly hunched toward the glow of his monitor.
A stack of classified folders lay open on Shanice's desk beneath a pair of reading glasses, her monitor still unlocked.
A Teams message chimed from Marty's workstation in the records section. Aaron gave him a quick nod as he passed.
RING.
He passed Southgate's closed office door and rounded the cluster of desks leading toward his workstation.
"Harry?"
He moved to his desk, unzipped his jacket, and draped it over the back of his chair.
He reached for the Baltic report beside his keyboard.
"You still wanted another pair of eyes?"
RING.
A nearby printer whirred steadily, feeding page after page into an already overflowing tray.
"You ducking out on me already?"
Harry didn't answer.
"Mate..."
Aaron picked up the Baltic report and started toward Harry’s desk.
His chair was turned away from the aisle.
One hand hung limply over the arm of the chair.
His H is for Harry coffee mug lay on its side beneath the desk.
Coffee had spread across the carpet beneath the overturned mug. A dark red stain pooled through the middle of it.
Aaron dropped the report.
"Harry?"
He rounded the desk in two quick strides and caught the back of the chair. Harry's head lolled with it.
Aaron stumbled back a step.
His eyes snapped toward the aisle.
"Marty."
He crossed the aisle so quickly he tripped on the corner of a desk. Marty's chair faced the monitors exactly as it had a minute earlier. When Aaron turned it, Marty folded sideways before the chair settled again.
The printer spat out another page.
"Southgate."
He raced to Southgate’s office, passing desks where monitors still glowed beneath abandoned mugs and open folders.
Station Chief Southgate lay sprawled across the floor, classified files scattered around him. Blood had spread beneath his suit jacket, one arm twisted beneath his body.
Aaron backed out and let the door drift shut.
He glanced toward the open HR office and ran over.
Judy from HR lay slumped across her desk, blood soaking through the papers beneath her and dripping onto the carpet.
"Shit," Aaron muttered, lifting Judy's head before gently lowering it again.
Aaron swallowed hard.
He reached his desk in three strides, yanked open the bottom drawer, and pulled out a black duffel bag. He dropped the duffel onto the desk and unbuttoned his shirt.
He stripped off the dress shirt in one motion and reached for the folded t-shirt inside the duffel. His tie landed in the chair behind him.
He pulled a charcoal t-shirt over his head. It stretched across his broad caramel shoulders before settling over the tattoo sleeve winding from his left shoulder to his forearm.
He stepped out of his trousers and into a pair of gray sweats, traded polished Oxfords for worn running shoes, tugged on a black baseball cap, and swapped his wire-frame glasses for a pair of dark sunglasses.
He grabbed a burner phone from a drawer to his right and slid it into his pocket, tossing his current phone into the duffel.
He slid his chair back and dragged the safe from beneath the desk. He spun the dial and yanked the door open.
Inside waited a row of passports, each bearing a different name, photograph, and nationality, tucked alongside stacks of foreign currency, replacement credentials, and burner phones still sealed in plastic.
Aaron swept everything into the duffel before stopping, his eyes landing on the monitor.
"Encrypted drive."
He entered his password, and the monitor sprang to life.
He inserted a key-shaped flash drive, tapped a few keys, waited for the confirmation, then pulled it free.
When he turned back toward the desks, the office looked different.
"Olivia?"
Every monitor glowed.
“Peter?”
Every coffee sat half-finished.
“Murray?”
He turned toward the exit.
Rain soaked through his jacket before he realized where his feet had carried him.
He stopped beside the Thames, unzipped the duffel just enough to reach inside and pulled out his own phone.
Harry's last message still glowed across the screen.
Harry: Still good for after lunch?
Aaron stared at it for a second.
He held the power button until the display went black. He removed the SIM card, dropped it into a storm drain, and tossed the phone into the gray water of the Thames before zipping the duffel shut.
A payphone stood outside a shuttered corner shop.
He dug through his pockets until his fingers closed around a handful of coins, shoving them one by one into the slot.
A few slipped from his fingers and clinked against the pavement.
He shoved the final coin into the slot.
RING.
RING.
RING.
"...Hello?”
Aaron opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Rain hissed against the receiver for a few seconds as his shallow breaths filled the silence.
It was a huge milestone of scientific and technological advancement. (Plus, at the time, politically significant). Humanity went to space! We set foot on a celestial body that was not earth for the first time in human history! That’s a big deal! I’ve never thought about it before but now that I have, it’s ridiculous to me that that’s not part of our everyday lives and the public consciousness anymore. Why don’t we have a public holiday and a family barbecue about it. Why have I never seen the original broadcast of the moon landing? It should be all over the news every year!
It’s July 20th. That’s the day of the moon landing. Next year is going to be the 54th anniversary. I’m ordering astronaut shaped cookie cutters on Etsy and I’m going to have a goddamn potluck. You’re all invited.
PITCH: We call it Moon Day, and then every 7 years when it falls on a Monday, that's an even BIGGER deal and we call that Moon Day Monday and go absolutely apeshit about it (the next Moon Day Monday is in 2026 so we have a couple trial runs first)
The weeks after Shawn showed up on Micah's doorstep blurred together in the best kind of way. Time stretched and compressed around moments they shared without planning, their lives slowly weaving together like threads in a tapestry neither of them knew they were creating. Neither of them remembered who texted first anymore. The rhythm had become too natural to track.
Some mornings it was Shawn sending her a video of Mama Mabel arguing with somebody over the proper way to season greens, her voice rising and falling like waves in the ocean.
Shawn: She been cussin' Uncle Reggie out for twenty minutes.
Micah: I'm with her. That man probably deserved it.
Other mornings Micah would wake up to a blurry meme about retired football players refusing to throw away T-shirts from 2008, the image so specific it could only be about him.
Shawn: You.
Micah: I write for a living. We recycle trauma and laundry.
There were days they barely talked. Just one text around lunchtime. You eat? Or— Drink some water. Or— You alive? The check-ins became so normal neither of them questioned them anymore. They were like breathing, essential and unexamined.
If Micah disappeared into a rewrite for twelve hours, Shawn somehow knew. Her phone would buzz. DoorDash is outside. No explanation. No speech. Just food. The first few times she'd argued. The fifth time she'd simply walked downstairs, grabbed the bag off her porch, and texted back:
You gettin' on my nerves.
His reply came almost immediately.
Eat first. Hate me later.
She never hated him later.
Shawn started dropping by her house more often too. Sometimes he came over because he had food. Sometimes because he wanted to borrow a movie. Sometimes because something in his garage reminded him of a story she told, and he wanted to tell her before he forgot. Eventually, neither of them bothered making excuses. One of them would simply ask—
You home?
If the answer was yes…
The other usually showed up.
Late Saturday afternoon found Micah exactly where she always ended up when a deadline was getting too close. Upstairs. Second floor. Writing room. Every window in the room was cracked just enough for the ocean breeze to slip inside, lifting the sheer curtains every few seconds before letting them fall again in a slow, hypnotic dance. The walls were lined with bookshelves crowded with screenwriting books, novels with dog-eared pages, binders full of old drafts, and framed movie posters she'd collected over the years. A vintage Juice poster hung crookedly above her desk, Tupac's intense gaze watching her every move.
Her leather notebook lay open beside her laptop, filled with dialogue she'd crossed out three separate times, the purple ink bleeding through the pages where she'd pressed too hard. Three empty cans of ginger ale sat abandoned on the desk, forming a tiny metal army. A lo-fi playlist hummed softly through the Bluetooth speaker on the bookshelf, the beats mixing with the distant sound of waves and the occasional cry of a gull.
Micah sat curled into the oversized reading chair by the window, oversized vintage Wu-Tang T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, black athletic shorts disappearing beneath it, fuzzy socks with little cartoon ghosts on them pulled halfway up her calves despite the California heat. Her glasses had slipped down her nose again, and the piece of gum she'd been chewing for nearly an hour had long since lost its flavor, turning into a bland, rubbery mass in her mouth.
She stared at the blinking cursor on her screen, the rhythmic pulse mocking her inability to form a coherent thought.
"...I hate all y'all."
The laptop, unsurprisingly, offered no rebuttal.
Her phone buzzed against the armrest, the vibration traveling up her arm like a tiny earthquake. She didn't look at it immediately. She typed another sentence. Deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted it harder, the keys clicking with unnecessary force. The phone buzzed a second time. Finally she reached over, her fingers closing around the device like it had personally offended her.
Shawn: You busy?
Micah smiled before she could stop herself, the corners of her mouth curving upward despite her frustration with her script. Her thumbs moved across the screen with ease.
Micah: Emotionally or professionally?
Three dots appeared almost instantly, dancing across the screen like tiny black ants.
Shawn: Both.
She laughed out loud in the quiet room.
Micah: Extremely.
A few seconds passed. Then:
Shawn: You eat?
Micah looked toward the kitchen downstairs as if the answer might magically appear. It didn't. She looked back at her phone, her thumbs hovering over the screen.
Micah: ...define "eat."
His typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then nothing. Micah narrowed her eyes.
"Oh, don't start..."
She tossed the phone onto the cushion beside her and went back to staring at the same paragraph she'd been trying to rewrite for the last forty-five minutes. Outside, a gull cried somewhere over the beach, its voice echoing through the open window. The breeze carried the smell of saltwater through the house, mixing with the faint scent of sandalwood from the candles burning downstairs.
She managed exactly four more sentences before the familiar sound of her doorbell echoed from downstairs, followed by the solid knock she'd come to recognize as his.
Micah closed her eyes.
"...This man."
She took her time walking downstairs, fuzzy socks whispering across the hardwood as she descended. The house was quiet except for the music still floating down from upstairs, the bass thumping softly through the floorboards. When she opened the front door, Shawn stood there with a cardboard drink carrier in one hand, a paper bag from the wing spot tucked under his arm, and a blunt resting behind one ear like he'd forgotten it was there.
The late afternoon sun caught in his locs, making them gleam like dark honey. His black hoodie was slightly damp from the heat, clinging to his shoulders in a way that made her mouth go dry for a second. He looked at her for exactly one second. Then at the oversized T-shirt. The fuzzy socks. The glasses.
"You still ain't eat."
Micah folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe like she wasn't thrilled to see him. "You ain't even say hello."
His gold tooth caught the late afternoon sun when he smiled. "Hello."
A beat.
"...You still ain't eat."
She sighed dramatically and stepped aside, the gesture so exaggerated it was almost theatrical. "You know one day I'm not opening this door."
He walked inside without missing a beat, his shoulder brushing hers as he passed, sending a little spark through her that she tried to ignore. "Liar."
She closed the door behind him, shaking her head to herself.
The smile she was trying to hide followed her all the way into the kitchen, where he was already unpacking the wings and lemonade like he lived there too.
The smell of barbecue wings lingered downstairs long after the boxes had been thrown away, the scent mixing with the ocean breeze drifting through Micah's open windows and the faint sweetness of the lemonade still sweating on her kitchen counter. Shawn had barely finished washing his hands at the sink, the water running over his thick fingers and tattoos, when Micah looked over from the kitchen island with that grin he was starting to recognize—the one that usually meant she was about to waste the next several hours doing anything except work.
"You know," she started, her voice casual but carrying that hint of mischief he'd come to know meant trouble was brewing. "I've been thinking."
"That's never a good sign," he replied, his back still to her as he finished rinsing the soap from his hands. He could feel her eyes on him, could practically hear the gears turning in that brilliant, chaotic mind of hers.
"Excuse you, my thinking is exceptional. Revolutionary, even."
Shawn turned off the water, grabbing the dish towel and drying his hands methodically, each finger getting its own moment of attention. "Revolutionary how? You figure out how to make your characters suffer in new and exciting ways?"
"No," she said, sliding off the barstool and padding over to stand beside him, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the ocean air. "I was thinking that I've been working way too hard and my brain is starting to feel heavy. All the good thoughts are just... gone. Migrated south for the winter or some shit."
He tossed the towel onto the counter, turning to lean against it, crossing his arms over his chest. "And this affects me how, exactly?"
"It affects you because you're my designated friend," she said, poking him in the chest, her finger pressing against the solid muscle there. "And friends don't let friends have scrambled egg brains. It's, like, in the handbook or something."
Shawn raised an eyebrow, looking down at where her finger still rested against him. "I don't remember signing up for this handbook. Pretty sure I'd remember signing anything that permitted you to bother me when I'm trying to be productive."
"You're not being productive, you're washing your hands."
"I was about to be productive. I had plans."
"Your plans involved sitting on my couch and scrolling through Instagram for three hours. Don't lie."
He couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. "How you know what I was gonna do?"
"Because I know you," she said, and something about the way she said it—so matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—made his chest feel tight in a way he was trying not to examine too closely. "Now come on. I have something to show you."
"Last time you said that, you made me watch some weird-ass French horror movie where nothing happened for two hours and then everybody died."
"That was cinema, you heathen. And this is different. Better. No subtitles required."
He sighed, but they both knew it was a performance. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"
"You're gonna love it," she said, already walking backward toward the hallway, her fuzzy socks sliding silently across the hardwood floors. "C'mon, Shawny. Don't be a party pooper."
"I'm not a party pooper. I'm a responsible adult with things to do."
"Like what?"
"Like... things."
She laughed, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet house. "Things. Wow. So specific. I'm convinced."
He pushed off the counter, following her through the house, taking the stairs two at a time while she narrated absolutely nothing important, her voice echoing slightly in the stairwell. "I finally got that second setup working. The cable management was a disaster—looked like a spider web on meth or some shit—but I fixed it. Don't judge my cable management."
"I'm not judging. I'm observing."
"Observing is just a fancy word for judging when you do it with that look on your face."
"What look?"
"That look you get right before you say something smart that makes me want to throw things at you."
He chuckled, shaking his head as they reached the top of the stairs. "You got a lot of opinions for somebody who invited me over."
"I didn't invite you over. You invited yourself over. With wings and lemonade, I might add. Which was very thoughtful but also very manipulative."
"Manipulative how?"
"You knew I couldn't resist lemonade. It's my weakness. Along with Wu-Tang and men who know how to fix things."
"Good to know my skills are appreciated," he said, his voice dry. "Now where you dragging me to?"
By the time they reached the second floor, Micah pushed open a door at the end of the hallway with a flourish. "Welcome to my favorite room."
Shawn stopped in the doorway. "...Damn."
The room wasn't flashy. It was lived in. Two custom-built gaming PCs sat side by side on matching desks beneath floating shelves lined with old game cases, action figures, and framed movie posters—mostly horror films and 90s classics, with a surprising number of 90s hip-hop album covers mixed in. Soft LED lights glowed amber behind the monitors instead of cycling through loud rainbow colors, casting the room in a warm, honey-like glow that made everything feel cozy and intimate. A mini fridge hummed quietly in the corner beside an old arcade cabinet she'd picked up at a flea market years ago, the side art slightly faded but still vibrant.
Headsets hung neatly from hooks. Controllers were lined up on a charging dock. A bookshelf in the corner somehow held gaming guides beside screenplay collections and horror novels, the spines worn from repeated readings. The entire room looked like someone had taken two of Micah's favorite hobbies and let them become roommates, and Shawn found himself wondering how many hours she'd spent up here, lost in worlds of her own creation.
"You built all this?"
Micah shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, dropping into one of the gaming chairs and spinning around once. "Most of it. The arcade cabinet was a bitch to move though. My back still hurts from that. Remind me never to try to lift heavy things by myself again."
Shawn walked farther inside, turning slowly, taking in every detail. "This is really nice, Micah. Like, professional-level nice."
"I know," she said, grinning. "I'm talented."
"You humble too."
"I work hard. Humility is for people who haven't earned the right to be arrogant."
He laughed, running his fingers over the worn spine of a screenwriting guide. "You definitely compliment yourself."
"Somebody gotta keep morale high around here. Can't have you walking around all grumpy and shit, bringing down the vibe."
"I don't bring down the vibe. I am the vibe."
"See? Arrogant."
He shook his head, smiling as he continued to explore the room, his eyes catching on a framed photo of her with some older woman who looked vaguely familiar. "I like it though. It's... you."
"I knew you would." She kicked her fuzzy-socked feet onto the edge of the desk for a second, then pointed toward the matching setup beside her. "Your station."
"My station?"
"Yeah. I mean, you're here enough. Might as well have your own shit instead of having to keep moving my stuff every time you come over."
He looked between the chair and her, a brow raised. "...I got assigned seating?"
"Employee of the month gets perks. Congrats."
"I don't remember filling out no application."
"You brought food. That was your interview. And the lemonade. That was your practical exam. You passed with flying colors."
He settled into the chair, adjusting it absently before waking the computer. The desktop came alive immediately, the screen displaying a custom background of some obscure horror movie poster he didn't recognize. "Already got Steam logged in for guests?"
"I plan ahead. Unlike some people who show up unannounced with wings and lemonade, expecting to be entertained."
"Is that what you're doing? Entertaining me?"
"Hell yeah. You're my guest. It's my job to provide a quality guest experience."
"Dangerous," he muttered, clicking through the game library.
"I've been called worse." Micah leaned over, resting her chin in her palm, her glasses sliding down her nose slightly. "So. What we playin'?"
Shawn clicked through his library for a moment before stopping on a game with a simple, minimalist logo. "You ever play Schedule I?"
She frowned, leaning closer to her monitor. "The drug game?"
"Mhm."
"The one everybody keep posting clips of? Where you build a drug empire and shit?"
"That's the one."
Micah leaned closer to her monitor, her eyes lighting up with interest. "...Absolutely."
Twenty minutes later, she'd become completely invested, her competitive nature kicking in immediately as she started clicking through the tutorial with an intensity that Shawn found both amusing and slightly terrifying.
"Okay, so here's the thing," she said, already sounding like she was pitching a Fortune 500 business plan, her voice serious and focused. "We need branding."
Shawn blinked, turning to look at her. "We sellin' drugs."
"Exactly."
"Branding."
"You can't just be out here with no identity. That's how you get caught, feel me? You gotta have a brand, something memorable, something that says 'we're professional drug dealers who care about the customer experience.'"
He pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling a headache coming on. "You concern me."
She ignored him completely, busy typing in a name for their operation. "'Mama Mabel's Pharmaceuticals.'"
Shawn's head snapped toward her so fast he was surprised he didn't give himself whiplash. "...You tryna get my mama indicted?"
"It's memorable."
"It is evidence."
"Fine." She clicked another option, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "'Definitely Not Drugs LLC.'"
"...Micah."
"What?"
"You cannot be serious."
"I've never been more serious in my life. This is my legacy we're building here. Future generations will speak of our empire in hushed, reverent tones."
He sighed the sigh of a man realizing he had willingly entered business with someone whose decision-making process was powered entirely by comedy and chaos. An hour disappeared. Then another. Every objective the game gave them somehow became an opportunity for Micah to improvise in ways that made absolutely no sense but were hilarious nonetheless.
"We're supposed to be making money," Shawn reminded her for what felt like the tenth time, his voice calm and measured despite the chaos unfolding on screen.
"We are making money. We're just reinvesting it."
"Reinvesting it in what? Velvet couches for the break room? A disco ball? Micah, we sell drugs out of a barn and a hotel room. We don't need ambiance."
"Yes, we do. Ambiance is crucial for employee morale. Happy employees make better drugs. It's basic business sense."
He stared at the screen, watching their profits plummet. "You just spent forty thousand dollars on velvet couches."
"It needed ambiance."
"It needed profit."
She waved him off, her attention focused on the screen as she hired another employee with ridiculous eyebrows. "Money is temporary. Ambiance is forever."
"It was our money."
"See?" She grinned proudly, turning to look at him. "Teamwork."
Shawn closed his eyes for a second, counting to ten in his head. "You're impossible."
By the third hour, he'd quietly accepted his role in their little operation. Micah would create chaos. He would fix it. Every time. She forgot objectives halfway through completing them. He finished them without saying anything. She accidentally bought the wrong supplies. He reorganized everything. She named every employee something ridiculous. He sighed and left the names alone because arguing clearly wasn't going to help.
At one point, she hired an NPC solely because, in her words, "he got trustworthy eyebrows."
Shawn looked at the screen, then at her. "...That's your hiring process?"
"You can't teach eyebrows. That's natural talent right there. You either got it or you don't."
"You also can't pay bills with eyebrows."
"We don't know that. Maybe we can. Let's experiment."
He looked over at her, a small smile playing on his lips. "You know what's wrong with you?"
"A little."
"A lot."
She laughed, the sound echoing through the room and making his chest feel warm in a way he was trying not to think about too much. It wasn't a polite laugh. It was the kind that stole her breath, made her lean forward in her chair. Shawn found himself watching her more than the game. Not in a way he recognized. Just... he liked hearing her laugh. He liked being the reason for it.
"You ain't even playing no more," Micah said once she'd caught her breath, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
"I'm carrying you. Hard."
"You are absolutely not. I'm the visionary. You're just... the muscle."
"The numbers disagree."
"The numbers are haters. They don't understand our vision."
He chuckled, shaking his head as he quietly fixed another one of her spectacular financial disasters, transferring funds from their nonexistent marketing budget to cover the cost of the velvet couches she'd insisted were essential for employee morale. "You know," he said, calm as ever, "if I wasn't here..."
"Our empire would've collapsed?"
He nodded once. "Within minutes. Probably would've caught fire too. Your financial decisions are... questionable."
Micah smiled without looking away from her monitor, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she designed employee uniforms that were entirely impractical but looked cool. "Good thing you keep pulling up then."
The words came out so naturally neither of them stopped to think about them. But something about the way they settled in the room made it feel less like a joke. And more like the truth.
By the time Micah finally peeled her headset off, the room had gone from bright afternoon to the soft blue glow of early evening. The LED lights behind the monitors painted shifting patterns across the walls while the last bit of sunlight slipped through the blinds, turning everything gold around the edges, like the world was slowly being dipped in honey. She leaned back in her chair until it creaked beneath her weight, stretching both arms high above her head, her spine answering with three loud pops that echoed in the quiet room.
"Oh, thank God." Her voice was thick from hours of not really talking, her throat dry.
Shawn looked over from his monitor, one eyebrow lifting as he watched her stretch. "You good?"
"My spine just filed a complaint with Human Resources. I think I'm gonna need a workers' comp claim for all the repetitive stress injuries from clicking buttons and yelling at fake drug dealers."
He chuckled, setting his headset on the desk with a soft click. "I told you we'd been sitting too long. Your ass ain't built for gaming marathons no more."
She glanced toward the clock mounted above the door, her eyes widening slightly. "...Four hours?"
"Told you."
"Ain't no way. We just started playing."
"We just started playing four hours ago, when you decided our drug empire needed a mission statement and employee uniforms."
"I stand by that decision. Our brand identity was weak before I came along."
"You also hired somebody because he had trustworthy eyebrows."
Micah shrugged without an ounce of shame, her shoulders lifting in a gesture of pure defiance. "You can't fake good eyebrows. That's natural talent, Shawn. Either you got it or you don't, and that man had the eyebrows of a man who wouldn't snitch under pressure."
He laughed, shaking his head as he stood, his joints popping softly as he stretched. "I have never met nobody who makes bad decisions with this much confidence. It's actually impressive. Like, you should teach a class or some shit."
"They're not bad decisions," she corrected, pushing herself out of the chair and groaning as her muscles protested. "They're creative risks. You wouldn't understand. You're too practical."
"They lost us forty thousand dollars."
"Money comes back."
"It was our money."
"Exactly." She grinned, pointing at him like she'd just proved some profound point. "Team building. We're learning to work together through adversity. Character development."
Shawn just looked at her for a long second before rubbing a hand over his beard, the scruff rasping against his palm. "You exhaust me."
"And yet..." She pointed at him again, her finger wagging playfully. "You keep showing up. Which means you secretly love the chaos. Admit it."
He looked away to hide the smile threatening to spread across his face, turning toward the door instead. "Come on," he said, his voice gruff. "I need air before I start believing fake money is real money, and our velvet couches were a sound investment."
They wandered downstairs without much urgency, still arguing about the game as they went, their footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs.
"I'm telling you," Micah insisted, following him into the kitchen, "our operation would've been legendary. 'Mama Mabel's Pharmaceuticals' would've been a household name. We'd have had our own reality show."
"It would've been investigated. By the DEA. Probably the FBI too, once they found out about your money laundering scheme involving velvet couches and disco balls."
"History remembers visionaries, Shawn. Not accountants."
"History also remembers indictments. And prison sentences. Usually with made-for-TV movies that don't paint the subjects in the most flattering light."
She laughed under her breath as she crossed to the refrigerator, the cool air washing over her as she pulled the door open. "You want lemonade?"
"You made lemonade?"
"I make everything. I'm a woman of many talents. Most of them unrelated to screenwriting, but impressive nonetheless."
"You say that like I should've already known."
"You should've. We've been friends for, like, a month now. That's practically a lifetime in today's fast-paced world."
She pulled a glass pitcher from the refrigerator, condensation beading along the sides, slices of lemon floating lazily across the top alongside fresh mint leaves. The smell alone made Shawn stop digging through his pockets for his lighter, his mouth watering instantly.
"Damn."
Micah smirked without looking up, her back still to him as she reached into the cabinet for two mason jars. "I heard that. That's the sound of a man who appreciates quality craftsmanship."
"You make this?"
"My daddy taught me. Said real lemonade ain't supposed to come from a powder. Said it's supposed to taste like summer and make you forget your problems for a little while."
She reached into the cabinet for two mason jars before filling them nearly to the top with ice. The lemonade hissed softly as it poured, the ice cracking from the sudden cold, the sound sharp and satisfying in the quiet kitchen.
"You sweeten it with honey?"
"And a little brown sugar. For depth. My daddy said complexity is key in all things, including beverages."
He looked genuinely impressed, his eyes widening slightly as he took the jar she slid across the counter toward him. "See?"
"I do more than lose fake drug money and hire people based on their facial features."
He accepted the drink, taking one sip before nodding slowly, his eyes closing for a second as he tasted it. "...Yeah."
She folded her arms, leaning against the counter. "'Yeah'?"
"This good. Like, damn good."
"Thank you. I'll be sure to pass your compliments along to my father. He'll be thrilled to know his teachings are being appreciated by retired football players with questionable taste in video games."
"I ain't finna gas your head up."
She grinned, reaching into the refrigerator one more time before pulling out a bowl of watermelon she'd cut up that morning, sprinkled generously with Tajín. "You put Tajín on watermelon too?"
"You don't?"
"I'm askin' questions."
"Your questions sound judgmental."
"I am. Who puts chili powder on fruit?"
"You sound like somebody who's never lived. It's the perfect balance of sweet and spicy and salty. It's an experience."
He shook his head, laughing to himself as he took another sip of lemonade. "I learn somethin' new about you every time I come over. You're weirder than I thought."
Micah picked up the bowl under one arm and nudged the sliding glass door open with her hip, the cool evening air rushing in to greet them. "Come outside before you say anything else disrespectful about my culinary preferences."
The evening greeted them with a cool breeze that smelled like saltwater and blooming jasmine from somewhere along the fence line. The sky had turned a watercolor blend of burnt orange, pink, and deepening blue, the sun sinking slowly toward the horizon beyond the neighboring rooftops. From the back deck, they couldn't quite see the ocean, but they could hear it. Waves rolled steadily in the distance, blending with birds settling into the palms and the faint laughter of children playing somewhere down the block.
Micah settled into one end of the outdoor sectional, tucking one leg beneath herself as Shawn dropped into the opposite corner. The space between them wasn't intentional anymore. It was simply where they landed, like two magnets finding their natural positions in relation to each other.
Shawn pulled the blunt from behind his ear, lighting it with practiced ease before taking the first pull. He exhaled slowly toward the fading sky, then passed it toward her without a word. She accepted it just as naturally, her fingers brushing against his in a way that had become so familiar neither of them noticed anymore.
For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It had become familiar, like an old blanket they both knew how to wrap around themselves.
"You ever miss LSU?" Shawn asked eventually, his voice soft in the quiet evening.
Micah looked out toward the horizon before answering, her eyes distant. "Sometimes." She took another sip of lemonade, the cold glass sweating against her palm. "I don't miss waking up before the sun or running suicides until I thought my lungs was gon' file for divorce." She laughed softly. "But I miss the people."
"The team?"
"The team. The trainers. Random folks I'd see every day. Late-night Waffle House runs after road games. Everybody piling into somebody's busted apartment to watch movies because nobody had enough money to actually go out." She smiled to herself, her eyes softening at the memories. "I complained about Louisiana every chance I got while I was there. The humidity, the bugs."
"And now?"
"Now I'd give somebody else's money to eat some real crawfish. The kind that makes your fingers spicy for days and your heart happy."
He laughed, the sound deep and warm. "I figured."
"What?"
"You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one people get when they talk about home. Even if they don't call it home."
She thought about correcting him. LSU hadn't really been home. Not exactly. But... "It was the first place that felt like I belonged to myself. Like I wasn't just somebody's daughter or somebody's sister or somebody's teammate. I was just... me. And that was enough."
Shawn nodded slowly, his eyes understanding. "I get that."
She looked over at him, really seeing him in the fading light. "What about you? You ever think about leaving Oakland for good?"
He leaned back, mason jar balanced loosely against one knee, his fingers drumming against the glass. "I could."
"But?"
"But every time I leave too long..." He shrugged, his shoulders moving in a way that said more than words could. "I start missin' little stuff."
"Like what?"
He smiled, his gold tooth catching the last of the sunlight. "My mama yellin' at everybody before they even walk through the front door. The way she season everything. The neighborhood cookouts where everybody bring a dish but end up eating Mama Mabel's food anyway. Kids ridin' bikes in the street. Old dudes arguing over dominoes." He shook his head with a quiet grin. "When I was little, I used to take apart radios just to see if I could put 'em back together."
"You were one of them kids?"
"Mhm. The kind that drove their mamas crazy. I tore up everything in the house. Clocks, toasters, the TV remote once. Mama was ready to disown me."
"But she let you keep doing it?"
"'Cause she said if I was gon' break somethin', I better learn how to fix it too. Said there was no use in being destructive if you wasn't also constructive." He smiled faintly. "Life lessons from a woman who once used a broom to chase away a burglar."
Micah smiled into her drink. "That explains... a lot, actually."
"What that supposed to mean?"
"You always fixin' something. The cabinet door at my place. The leaky faucet. My character arcs in that game."
He looked down at the mason jar in his hand for a second before answering, his voice softer now. "I don't know. I just... like figuring out how things work. Taking 'em apart and putting 'em back together better than they were before."
"People too?"
"Nah." He laughed, but it was quieter this time. "People harder. You can't just take 'em apart and expect 'em to go back together the same way. People ain't radios."
She nodded thoughtfully. "That's fair."
He glanced over, his eyes finding hers in the dim light. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You always know you wanted to write?"
Micah rested her elbows on her knees, rolling the cold glass slowly between her palms. "No." She smiled to herself, a private little smile that was just for her. "I just always made stuff up."
"Like?"
"Oh, everything." She laughed, the sound soft and nostalgic. "My Barbies had full character arcs. I'd rewrite the endings to movies that pissed me off. I'd make notebooks full of fake TV shows that only existed in my head. I was that weird kid in the back of the class who was always writing instead of paying attention."
"And now you get paid to do it."
"Still feels weird saying that. Sometimes I sit at my laptop and think, 'Somebody trusted me enough to tell stories for a living.' Like, how did that even happen? How did I trick them into giving me money for the voices in my head?"
Shawn nodded, his eyes understanding. "I can see it."
She looked over, surprised. "You can?"
"You notice stuff." He shrugged simply. "The way you tell stories... You notice little things most people walk right past. The way somebody's hands move when they're nervous. The way they talk around what they really mean. You see all that."
The compliment settled over her more heavily than she'd expected in a warm and suffocating way. She looked back toward the fading sunset, her fingers tightening around the mason jar.
"I think..." She hesitated, searching for the words that wouldn't come easily. "I think writing just makes the noise in my head quieter."
The sentence hung between them, carried gently by the breeze, fragile and honest in a way that left her feeling exposed.
Shawn didn't rush to answer. He didn't ask what kind of noise. Didn't ask if she was okay. Didn't try to turn it into something bigger than she'd intended. Instead, he nodded once, his eyes soft with understanding.
"I know exactly what you mean."
She looked at him, really looked at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice.
"For me, it's fixing stuff," he said quietly. "Cars. Furniture. Anything with my hands. Soon as I start workin' on somethin'..." He looked down at his palms before smiling faintly. "...everything else gets real quiet. All the noise, all the expectations, all the shit from the past... it just fades away. It's just me and whatever I'm fixing. And for a little while, things make sense again."
Micah smiled back. Not because he'd solved anything. Not because he'd asked the perfect question. But because he hadn't asked one at all. He understood. And somehow, that was enough.
They fell silent again, passing the blunt back and forth while the last sliver of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon. The lemonade sweated against the glass in their hands, the watermelon bowl sat forgotten on the table between them, and the steady rhythm of the waves filled the spaces where words no longer felt necessary.
Neither of them noticed how natural it had become. Neither of them realized that somewhere between game nights, homemade lemonade, and conversations like this, they had stopped being two people getting to know each other. They had quietly become part of each other's peace.
The last of the sunlight had bled away by the time they stumbled back inside, leaving the world outside painted in shades of deep blue and silver. The sliding door whispered shut behind them, sealing in the warmth of the house and the lingering scent of lemonade and smoke. Micah dropped the empty watermelon bowl into the sink with a soft clatter, her movements loose and relaxed in a way that only came from hours spent doing nothing important with someone who made it feel like everything.
Shawn followed her into the living room, his presence filling the space behind her as she flopped onto the couch, sinking into the cushions with a contented sigh. The game was forgotten, the upstairs office abandoned, the fake drug empire left to fend for itself. Now there was just the two of them, bathed in the soft glow of lamps scattered around the room, the ocean breeze still drifting through the open windows, carrying with it the sounds of the night settling in around them.
"I'm never playing that game with you again," Shawn said, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch, his body unfolding into the cushions with an ease that made it feel like he'd been sitting there for years instead of hours.
"Liar," Micah replied, stretching her legs out across the coffee table, her fuzzy socks brushing against the stack of screenwriting books she'd abandoned earlier. "You loved every minute of being the responsible one. You're a natural born fixer."
"Somebody had to be," he said, his voice low and warm in the quiet room. "You were out here spending our profits on velvet couches like we were running a high-end hoe house instead of a drug operation."
Grinning, she grabbed her laptop from the coffee table, balancing it on her knees as she opened it to the document she'd been struggling with earlier. "And you know you loved it. Don't even front."
"I loved watching you slowly bankrupt us with questionable decisions."
He shook his head, laughing quietly as he watched her type, the rhythmic clicking of the keys filling the comfortable silence between them. For a while, neither of them spoke, just existed together in the warm, intimate space they'd created, the world outside fading away until there was just the two of them, the soft glow of the lamps, and the words flowing from Micah's fingers as she worked.
"What's this one about?" Shawn asked eventually, his voice soft, like he was afraid to break the spell she seemed to be under.
"A rewrite," she said, her eyes still focused on the screen. "Studio wants me to make the main character more... likable."
"That means you made her unlikable on purpose?"
"She's not unlikable," Micah said, her fingers pausing over the keyboard. "She's just... complicated. She says the wrong things. She pushes people away before they can get close enough to hurt her. She's got all these feelings bottled up inside, but instead of talking about them, she just... deflects. Makes jokes. Changes the subject. Anything to keep people from seeing what's really going on with her."
She looked over at him, her eyes soft in the dim light. "Sound familiar?"
Shawn smiled, but it was a knowing kind of smile, like he was seeing something she wasn't ready to admit yet. "She sounds like a character in one of your scripts."
"That's 'cause she is, genius."
"No, I mean..." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes finding hers in the warm glow of the room. "You know..."
"What?"
"You talk like your scripts."
Micah laughed, the sound bright and a little too loud in the quiet room. "What does that even mean? I'm a writer. I talk like a writer. That's not exactly a groundbreaking observation."
"No, it's..." He paused, searching for the right words, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Everybody in your stories eventually say exactly what they feel. They might fight it, might try to run from it, but by the end... they always say the thing. The big thing. The thing they've been holding back the whole time."
He looked away for a second, his eyes drifting toward the window where the moon was just starting to appear, a sliver of silver against the darkening sky. Then he looked back at her, his expression soft but direct, like he was seeing right through all the jokes and deflections she used to keep people at arm's length.
"Except you."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it was heavy, filled with all the words she wasn't saying, all the feelings she wasn't letting herself feel. Micah could feel her heart beating faster, could feel the walls she'd so carefully built around herself starting to crack, just a little, under the weight of his observation.
"That's not true," she said, but her voice lacked conviction, even to her own ears. "I say what I feel. All the time."
"You say what you think people want to hear," he countered gently, his voice still soft, still understanding. "You say what's funny. What's safe. You change the subject when it gets too real. You deflect."
He leaned back against the couch, his eyes never leaving hers, his gaze so direct and honest it made her want to look away, but she couldn't. "You write all these characters who are brave enough to say the scary thing, to be vulnerable enough to let people see who they really are... but when it comes to you... you hide behind the words."
Micah laughed, but it was a hollow sound, even to her own ears. "That's not... I don't..."
"You do," he said, his voice still gentle, still understanding. "And it's okay. Everybody got their ways of protecting themselves. But I see it, Micah. I see you."
She looked away then, her eyes finding the Tupac poster on the wall, anything to break the intensity of his gaze, anything to keep from drowning in the truth of his words. "You're reading too much into it," she said, her voice tight. "It's just a script. Just a character."
"Is it?" he asked, his voice still soft, still gentle. "Or is it just easier to write about the things you're scared to say yourself?"
She didn't answer, couldn't answer, because he was right. He was so right it hurt, like a physical ache in her chest, like a wound she'd forgotten was there until he'd somehow found it and pressed his thumb right against the tender spot.
"I should..." she started, but she didn't finish, didn't know what she was going to say. I should go? I should stop talking? I should admit that you see me better than anyone ever has?
Instead, she just closed her laptop, the soft click echoing in the quiet room like a door closing, shutting him out before he could see any more of the parts of her she kept hidden away. "You want something else to drink? Or... I don't know, watch a movie or something?"
Shawn watched her for a long moment, his eyes soft with understanding, with patience, with something else she wasn't ready to name yet. Then he nodded slowly, like he knew she needed the escape, like he was willing to give her the space she was so desperately trying to create.
"Yeah," he said, his voice still gentle. "Yeah, okay. But you're picking. And if you try to make me watch that French movie again, I'm leaving."
Micah laughed, the sound easier this time, more genuine, like she was grateful for the out, for the chance to slip back into the comfortable rhythm they'd established before he'd somehow seen right through her defenses. "Deal," she said, already reaching for the remote. "But no complaining when I pick something with subtitles. It's called culture, Shawny. Look it up sometime."
But as she scrolled through the options, her fingers moving across the remote, his words echoed in the quiet spaces of her mind. You talk like your scripts. Except you.
The movie ended up being some indie drama with too much dialogue and not enough plot, but neither of them seemed to mind. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, their feet propped up on the coffee table, occasionally making snarky comments about the characters' terrible decisions until Micah fell asleep about forty-five minutes in, her head lolling against the back cushions, her mouth slightly open, her glasses still perched on her nose like she'd been mid-sentence when sleep claimed her.
Shawn noticed immediately. He muted the TV, the sudden silence making her soft snores more audible, a gentle rhythm that was somehow endearing rather than annoying. He watched her for a moment, her face soft and relaxed in sleep, all the sharp edges and defenses she kept up during the day melting away until there was just Micah, unguarded and vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be when she was awake.
He could've left then. Should've left then, probably. But instead, he found himself grabbing the throw blanket from the back of the couch and carefully draping it over her, his fingers brushing against her shoulder as he tucked it around her, the contact sending butterflies through him that he tried to ignore. He took her glasses off too, folding them carefully and setting them on the coffee table beside her laptop, the movements slow and deliberate, like he was handling something precious.
Then he sat back down and watched the rest of the movie by himself, the glow of the TV illuminating the room in flickering shades of blue and gray, his attention divided between the screen and the woman sleeping beside him, the steady rhythm of her breathing somehow more compelling than whatever was happening on screen.
It was nearly midnight when he finally decided he should go. The movie had long since ended, the credits rolling silently across the screen as Micah slept on, oblivious. He stood slowly, his joints protesting after hours of sitting, and gathered his things, the movements quiet and careful so as not to wake her.
He was almost to the door when she stirred, her eyes fluttering open, blinking slowly in the dim light. "What time is it?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep, her hair a mess around her face.
"Late," he said softly, pausing by the door. "You fell asleep."
"Did not."
"You were snoring."
"I don't snore," she insisted, sitting up slowly, the blanket pooling around her waist. "I was... resting my eyes."
"Right," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "Well, your eyes needed a lot of rest. I should go."
"You're leaving?" she asked, and something about the way she said it—soft, a little uncertain—made him want to stay, made him want to crawl back onto the couch and watch terrible movies with her until the sun came up.
"It's late," he said, but he didn't move, his hand still resting on the doorknob, like he was waiting for her to give him a reason to stay.
"Stay," she said, the word barely a whisper, like she'd reached across the room and wrapped her fingers around his heart.
"Micah..."
"Just... a little longer," she said, her eyes finding his in the dim light, all the defenses she usually kept up suddenly gone, replaced by something raw and honest and vulnerable. "I don't... I don't want the night to end yet."
And how could he say no to that? How could he say no to her when she was looking at him like that? So he let go of the doorknob and walked back to the couch, sinking onto the cushions beside her, the space between them suddenly feeling charged.
They sat there for another twenty minutes, just talking, the conversation flowing easily from one topic to another, from movies to music to memories of childhoods they'd left behind. Neither of them wanted to be the first person to end it, to break the spell that had settled over them in the quiet of the night. But eventually, the clock on the wall ticked past one, and Shawn knew he really had to go.
"I really should go this time," he said, standing slowly, his body protesting. "Okay," she said, her voice soft as she followed him to the door, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. "Drive safe."
"Always," he said, turning to face her at the door, the space between them suddenly feeling too small, too charged with all the things they weren't saying. He wanted to kiss her then, wanted to lean in and close the distance between them, wanted to taste the lemonade on her lips and the words she wasn't saying, but he didn't. Instead, he just smiled, a small, sad smile that said everything he couldn't bring himself to say out loud.
"Goodnight, Micah."
"Goodnight, Shawny."
He turned then, walking down the porch steps and across the lawn to his truck, the crunch of his footsteps on the gravel path the only sound breaking the silence of the night. Micah stood in the doorway, watching him go, her heart aching in a way she didn't understand, like something important was ending before it had even really begun.
He looked back once before climbing inside, his eyes finding hers in the dim light, a silent acknowledgment passing between them, a promise of something more to come. Then he was gone, his truck disappearing down the street, leaving her alone in the quiet of her house, the silence suddenly feeling too loud, too empty without him in it.
She stood there for a long time, just breathing, just feeling, before finally closing the door and leaning against it, her eyes closed as she tried to make sense of the jumble of emotions swirling inside her.
Later, when she was curled up in bed, the house still feeling too big without him in it, her phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. She reached for it, her heart beating a little faster than it should have, like she already knew who it was before she even looked.
It was a picture message. Just his TV, the screen black, the reflection of his living room visible in the glass.
Micah: Why'd you send me your television?
Shawn: You said text when I got home.
She laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet room, filling up all the empty spaces he'd left behind.
Micah: I hate you.
Shawn: See you tomorrow.
She typed a reply, her fingers moving across the screen before she could stop herself. I miss you already. But then she stopped, her thumb hovering over the send button, the words suddenly feeling too honest, too vulnerable, even for him. So she deleted them, her finger hovering over the screen for a moment before she finally settled on something simpler, something safer.
Micah: 👍🏾
He smiled anyway, alone in his living room, the quiet of the night suddenly feeling a little less empty, a little less lonely, knowing she was out there somewhere, thinking of him too.
At the end of the day, Captain America: Brave New World was a movie about a Black man (Sam Wilson) who risked his reputation, his status and his life, to protect another Black man (Isaiah Bradley)
...like, I feel like more people need to be aware of that.
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