“The bathroom’s through there,” Micah answered regardless, pointing at one of three doors. The two others led to a small closet and, of course, the exit. “It’s nothing fancy. There’s a toilet, a sink, and a shower stall. I know it’s not much,” he said, referring to the apartment at large, “but it’s mine, and it’s home.”

Truth was, as much as he disliked the landlord of the building, and annoying as it was dealing with cold showers most mornings, Micah was proud of his tiny apartment. Even with a full time job, living on your own at twenty-three was nothing to scoff at in a city as expensive as New York. Sure, the space was small and cramped even with the minimal amount of threadbare furniture he owned, but Micah liked to think of it as homey.

It certainly wasn’t as impressive as Damon’s monochrome, clean-cut penthouse with its stainless steel appliances and balcony with a hot tub, but at least Micah’s personal touches – the family pictures he’d hung on the wall, various band posters, his Mets flag, and, of course, the novelty throw pillows Tessa had bought him for his birthday – a fuzzy, rainbow-colored one, and a classic “Sounds gay. I’m in.” in black and white – gave the space personality.

Micah was torn from his thoughts when Damon approached the pictures he had on display.

Micah had the presence of mind to be grateful that none of the photos featured his dad in uniform. Especially when Damon plucked one off the wall to examine it more closely. It was a picture of Micah with both his parents. He was eleven and decked out in a youth baseball uniform, tan from the sun and freckles standing out starkly across the bridge of his nose as he smiled brightly at the camera. His mom and dad were on either side of him, each with an arm slung around his shoulders. It had been taken only a month or so before his mother had unexpectedly passed.

Damon must not have had any personal run-ins with Micah’s father because no recognition sparked in his eyes as he examined the picture. “You were a cute kid,” Damon offered, gaze drifting to another photo, this one featuring a wiggly toddler version of Micah in his mother’s lap, face smeared with chocolate.

He was probably wondering how the happy kid in the pictures had ended up working the streets.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have a trio of sisters to force me into dresses, but I’d like to think I still turned out okay.”

Damon shot him a half-hearted glare, but he returned the picture to its place on the wall, which Micah was grateful for. Whether Damon recognized his father or not, Micah didn’t need him looking too closely into his life.