The corridor was dark and silent as Micah padded across the marble floor, his footsteps muted against the expensive rug. His face remained calm, but beneath that mask his thoughts twisted in faint, elusive shapes—like ripples on a lake disturbed by a pebble.
In the kitchen, the staff had long retired. The polished counters gleamed under dim lights. He opened the fridge, took out a cold bottle of water, and drank.
The taste was sharp, grounding. Still, he found his lips remembering something else—the fleeting pressure of Liam's kiss. Innocent. Hesitant. Awkward.
It shouldn't have affected him. It was clumsy, almost childish. And yet… the memory lingered.
Micah set the bottle down, pressing his fingertips briefly against the counter. His emerald eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to push away the thought, but it returned stubbornly: Liam hadn't kissed him by mistake. The boy had leaned in deliberately, his entire body trembling with nervousness, yet determined.
A faint exhale slipped from Micah's lips. He didn't let the thought grow into words, didn't chase it to its conclusion. It was just a glimpse—something too strange, too new.
He turned, heading back to his room as if nothing had happened.
•••••
Still in Micah's room, Liam was gripping his English book tightly on his lap, his cheeks flaming red. He wanted to bury himself under the couch cushions and never come out again.
"I kissed him. I actually kissed him!" he whispered to himself, pulling at his hair.
His heart refused to slow down, replaying the moment again and again: the softness of Micah's lips, the way those emerald eyes hadn't widened in shock, nor narrowed in anger—just calm, unreadable silence.
It was humiliating. Liam wanted to scream. But at the same time, there was a spark of strange happiness inside him. He hadn't been pushed away, hadn't been scolded. Micah hadn't said a single cruel word. He had only left.
Rejected, yes. But not in the way Liam had feared.
"That's progress," Liam muttered, covering his red face with his hands. "At least… at least I did it. I kissed him. And I didn't die."
He laughed shakily, the sound muffled against his palms.
Yet his chest ached too. It wasn't enough. Micah hadn't kissed him back. Micah hadn't even flinched. It was like his feelings had crashed into a wall of stone.
"Still," Liam whispered, sitting up straighter. "Tonight was just the start. I'll do better next time. I'll make him see me. Really see me."
He gathered his book, stood up, and slipped out of Micah's room quietly. The mansion's hallways felt heavy, but his steps were quicker now, driven by something reckless in his chest.
By the time he reached his own room, his embarrassment had cooled into determination.
•••••
Inside his bedroom, Liam flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. His fists clenched the sheets, his legs restless.
He thought of Micah's emerald eyes, calm as ever. He thought of how his lips had felt against his own. He thought of how close he had been, how close he could be again.
"I'll make you mine, Micah," Liam muttered under his breath. "Even if I have to embarrass myself a hundred times."
The thought of seduction burned in his mind. He didn't even know how far such things went—his innocence painted the boundaries of desire as holding, touching, kissing. He was too naive to imagine more, but in his heart, those things alone already felt dangerously intimate.
"I can do it," he whispered fiercely, pressing his pillow against his chest. "Next time, I won't freeze. Next time, I'll touch him longer. I'll kiss him until he can't ignore me."
He closed his eyes, saying a clumsy prayer in his head—half to God, half to his own courage—that he wouldn't fail tomorrow. That somehow, Micah would respond.
With that, he finally drifted into a restless sleep, cheeks still flushed.
••••••
The corridor was silent as Micah returned from the kitchen, the faint bottle of water still cool in his hand. He opened his bedroom door without hurry, expecting to find Liam sitting awkwardly, maybe hiding behind his book.
But the room was empty.
The book was gone. The couch was neatly arranged. The faint scent of Liam's shampoo lingered in the air, proof that he had been there—but he had already fled.
Micah paused by the doorway, his emerald eyes scanning the space. His expression didn't change, but something flickered faintly inside.
"Ran away," he murmured softly, setting the water bottle down. "He couldn't face me."
He sat on the edge of his bed, unbuttoning his gray nightshirt slowly. His thoughts lingered just for a moment longer. The kiss replayed itself briefly—the hesitant press of lips, the nervous trembling. That wasn't an accident. Liam had meant it. Planned it.
Micah leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. His expression was calm, but his eyes glowed faintly in the dim light.
"A bold move for someone so shy," he whispered, almost to himself.
Then, as though brushing it away, he closed his eyes and laid down, pulling the sheets over himself. Sleep came slowly, but the memory of that kiss refused to fade completely.
And beneath the calm mask, something faintly unsettled stirred in him.
***
Down the hall, in another room, Liam tossed and turned in his bed, clutching his pillow with trembling determination.
In Micah's room, silence reigned, but the air carried an unspoken tension—like two storms gathering at opposite ends of the mansion, waiting to collide.
Neither of them knew it yet, but the night had already shifted something between them.
Something that couldn't be undone.