Although Micah didn’t necessarily fear Damon, he had still half-expected his place to be ransacked when he’d walked through his front door with his dad. He imagined the clothes Damon had bought him torn to shreds, the mattress the man had gifted him gutted with its stuffing thrown about.

Reality was worse.

A careful pursual of his apartment revealed that nothing had been touched. Everything was exactly as Micah had left it. Which meant nearly everything in his apartment reminded him of Damon.

It was beginning to drive Micah insane.

He would open his closet to find something to wear, and there the perfectly pressed suits the man had bought him would be, draped innocently over wire hangers.

So Micah took to wearing the same stained sweats for days in a row.

He would manage to drag himself into the bathroom shower, only to be confronted with the expensive soaps and shampoos the man had got him when Micah demanded to know what sort of products Damon used that he always smelled like Christmas trees.

So Micah forwent showering, allowing his hair to become limp and greasy.

He would pry open his cabinets or the fridge to make himself something to eat, and see they were still filled with the expensive, organic snacks Damon had been constantly having delivered, and suddenly he’d lose his appetite.

Don’t even get Micah started on the damn mattress.

The bed in his apartment – the one Damon had bought him – was the most comfortable one he’d ever owned. Yet, every time Micah tried to sleep on it, guilt or shame or anguish – something – made it feel like he was attempting to sleep on a sheet-covered slab. He always ended up migrating to his lumpy couch halfway through the night.

It had only been four days since Jason had lured Micah to his house and held him at gun point. Not even a week since Micah had utterly destroyed his relationship with Damon.

But not once in that time had Micah mustered up the willpower to shower or change his clothes, he was averaging probably three to four hours of sleep at night, and he’d probably managed to lose about five pounds.

Coke addict hit by a car probably wasn’t too far off.

“How was work?” Micah asked, more out of habit than anything else as he pulled two spoons from his silverware drawer and gave one to Tessa.

He flopped down onto his couch, wasting no time digging into his ice cream as soon as Tessa handed it over. “Boring,” she said, sitting beside him. “It was slow for a Saturday, and desk duty sucks.” She looked for a second like she might say something more, but then she seemed to think twice about it, and returned her attention to her ice cream.

Micah frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Yeah, right. “Is it about Nico’s case?” he asked. “Did something happen-?”