Page 108 of Micah
The thought follows me into the bathroom as I quietly close the door behind me.
It's fantastic.
Not flashy.
Not overdone.
And it is so him.
Thick log walls glow warm beneath soft recessed lighting.
The vanity is handcrafted from knotty pine, the black fixtures are clean and modern without feeling cold.
The mirror is enormous, framed in rough-hewn cedar, and the shower?
Oh my God.
It's almost as big as my bedroom back at my apartment near the bar.
Natural stone.
Glass doors.
A rainfall showerhead overhead.
It feels like walking into one of those luxury cabin rentals people show off online.
Only this isn't a rental.
Micah built it.
With his own hands.
I lean against the vanity for a second, trying to steady my breathing before I peel my work shirt over my head.
The cotton lands in a heap on the floor.
My jeans follow.
They're filthy.
Grease stains.
Barbecue sauce.
Beer.
The usual casualties of working a busy night behind the bar.
Except, I see something else staining them, and my stomach twists.
It's blood.
Not mine.
I don't even know whose.
The sight makes my hands start trembling all over again.
