Page 90 of Micah
Across the bar.
From his usual stool.
His attention drifts back to me over and over again, never in a way that feels invasive.
More like...
Like he's making sure I'm okay.
I used to think maybe I imagined it.
Now I know I didn't.
My gaze drops to his mouth.
Those full lips spend more time pressed into a thoughtful line than smiling, but when he does smile...
It changes his whole face.
Softens him.
Makes him look younger somehow.
Hopeful.
And God help me, I want to be the reason he smiles more often.
Then there are his manners.
Who even stands when a waitress walks over anymore?
Micah does.
Every single time.
He holds doors without making a production of it.
Says please and thank you.
Leaves tips big enough to make me argue with him if he ever stuck around long enough for me to catch him.
He treats everyone with the same quiet respect.
The dishwasher.
The cook.
The little old couple who come in every Thursday.
Me.
Especially me.
He isn't loud.
He doesn't flirt.
He doesn't fill every silence with chatter like so many men seem compelled to do.
