No Ugly Parts

Callum's pulse had finally settled, the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat had slowed to something manageable. Minutes ago, he'd felt like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders— like the entire company and his father's expectations were going to crush him. Minutes ago, he'd been convinced he was seconds from spiraling into that familiar abyss of doubt and frustration. 

And then Micah had stayed. 

Micah sat crouched beside Callum's chair, his small, warm hand stroking the back of Callum's. The motion was repetitive but soothing, like waves lapping gently at the shore. Callum wasn't sure how such a simple gesture could ground him so effectively, but it did. And it wasn't just his touch—it was Micah himself. 

Callum glanced down at him. Micah's gaze was fixed on his hand, his thumb tracing light circles against Callum's skin. He looked so focused, as though the simple act of being there for Callum was the most important task in the world. 

Callum's chest tightened. He shouldn't be surprised by Micah's ability to calm him. His heart remembered this feeling, even if his mind hadn't fully caught up yet. This was how Ashur had always made him feel—steady, safe, like the rest of the world could crumble and he'd still be okay as long as Ashur was there. His happiest moments had always been with him. 

Micah shifted slightly, his knees cracking faintly as he adjusted his position. 

Callum frowned. "I'm sorry. Do your knees hurt? You can sit down now." 

Micah shook his head, his thumb never pausing its gentle movement. "I'm fine." 

But there was something in his expression, a flicker of hesitation that Callum noticed immediately. 

Micah cleared his throat softly. "Do you remember that night?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "The night I was… attacked?" 

Callum's jaw hardened instantly. How could he forget? The memory of that night was burned into his mind—the sound of Micah's panicked breathing, the terror in his eyes, the sickening realization of how close he'd been to losing him. 

Again.

"I do," Callum said, his voice tight. 

Micah nodded and his gaze dropped back to Callum's hand. "I sometimes have nightmares about it," he admitted. "They're vivid, visceral, and always the worst-case scenario. Like… What if you hadn't come? What if that man had done what he wanted to do to me? What if he'd—" His voice broke, and he swallowed hard before continuing, quieter now. "What if he'd killed me?" 

Callum's free hand clenched into a fist, his nails biting into his palm. He hated to think of the possibilities, focusing on the fact that he had been there and not on all the things that could have gone wrong if he wasn't. But of course it was different for Micah. He had no idea anyone was going to rescue him.

"Micah…" 

"But then," Micah continued, cutting Callum off, "I wake up in a panic, and I'm reminded of what actually happened. How you stayed with me when I felt like my whole world was falling apart." He paused, taking a steadying breath. "I think that's important. I know you like to be on your own most of the time—big stoic Callum Pierce. But having friends means you always have a shoulder to cry on. And if we're going to be friends, you can't carry things on your own anymore. You have to tell me when something is wrong." 

Callum blinked, caught off guard by the seriousness in Micah's tone. 

Micah looked up, his big, earnest, green eyes meeting Callum's. "And don't lie. Friends don't lie to each other." 

For a moment, Callum said nothing, processing Micah's words. Then a soft smile tugged at his lips. "'If we're going to be friends?'" he repeated, his tone teasing. "Micah Liu, I thought we were already friends."

Micah blushed fiercely, a warm red shading under the honey brown of his skin. "Callum…" he groaned, clearly flustered. 

Callum chuckled. But the moment passed and his smile faded. "It's just my dad. The chairman of the board." 

Micah tilted his head, listening intently. 

"I work so hard," Callum continued, his voice quieter now. "But it's never worth it. No matter what I do, I'm still a disappointment." He sighed, "I never wanted to be a CEO, you know? I wasn't even supposed to be making games. My father wanted me to become a venture capitalist, just like him. Another Pierce in the notch of rich businessmen. But I hated it. I hated everything about the stuffy, fake life high earners live. People only spoke to you because they wanted to make money from you, off you, or through you." 

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. "Quite frankly, I just wanted to be left alone." 

Micah stayed silent, giving him space to continue. Not that he needed to, the moment Callum started talking, years of frustration came tumbling out.

"I learned to code when I was a kid, back when my parents would leave me with babysitters while they went off to hobnob with other elites," he said, a faint smile ghosting his lips. " One of my babysitters was a computer science student. She used to enter game competitions for extra cash, and she gave me pointers. I fell in love with it—the lines of code, the way each one produced a sure effect. I loved the certainty of it all. Even though my art was terrible, I loved the process of creating. So I made my first game." 

Micah whispered, "Flaming Chicken Apocalypse." 

Callum chuckled. Anyone who researched him enough knew about that stupid game. "It was so bad, but it was mine." He paused, his smile fading. "My father didn't approve, of course. He said gaming and game creation was silly and childish. But I kept doing it anyway." 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I can give him props for being good at his job because when he heard about 'Pantheon,' he didn't think, 'Wow, my son is making a cool game.' All he thought was, 'This would be a good investment.' Catalyst Games was the compromise. If I wasn't going to make him money as his protégé, I would make him money as the head of a company that made the things I wanted." He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling tired all over again. "But I constantly wonder if this is all worth it—if I'm not just wasting my time being a slave to him. And if I'm not disappointing all the people who work here by being the worst boss ever." 

Micah was quiet for a long moment. Then, without warning, he stood, turned around and reached for the hem of his shirt. 

Callum's eyes widened in panic. "Whoa! Wait a minute! What are you doing?" 

Micah ignored him, lifting the shirt halfway up his torso. Callum's breath hitched as his eyes took in the scars crisscrossing Micah's back. They were faint but they were there, permanently imprinted in the intern's skin like a branding. His heart twisted painfully, anger bubbling up at the thought of anyone daring to hurt him. 

"They're from my parents," Micah said quietly, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. "Two people who'd have preferred if I'd never been born." 

Callum's stomach twisted painfully, but he didn't interrupt. How Micah bore those scars and still radiated so much kindness was beyond Callum; if it was him, his parents would be dead.

"It was like my mere existence irritated them," Micah continued. "They'd always find a reason to be mad at me. So I drew. I drew the good I wanted to see in the world—and the good I did see, like butterflies on the path to school or parents kissing their kids goodbye." 

He lowered his shirt and turned back to Callum, his eyes soft but resolute. "You once told me my parents are stupid. I'm telling you the same now. Your dad is a dodo head, Callum. Your employees love working here. I love working here. We see your vision, we appreciate it when you see ours. We work for you." 

Callum stared at him, stunned into silence. Heat spread across his chest like a sip of hot wine on a cold winter's night. Micah's words meant more to him than the intern would ever know. For the first time in a long time, he felt seen—not as a CEO, not as the son of a rich and powerful man, but as himself.

Micah's cheeks flushed, and he groaned. "You can't look at me like that." 

"Like what?" Callum asked, his voice hoarse. 

"I just showed you the ugliest part of myself, you can't look at me like I'm beautiful," Micah said softly. 

Before Callum could respond, the tension in the room broke as Micah's phone buzzed, the sound snapping him out of the moment. Micah glanced at the screen and his face lit up in mild panic.

"Fish!" He gasped. "It's Genesis. I'm supposed to man the face-painting stall!" 

Callum smirked. "Fish?" 

Micah groaned. "I don't like to swear, okay?" He grabbed Callum's hand, tugging him gently. "Come with me. Don't tell me you planned to stay cooped up in here all day. That won't do." 

Callum chuckled, letting Micah pull him to his feet. He had intended to stay in his office all day, but suddenly, following Micah sounded far more appealing. 

As they reached the door, Callum stopped. Before he could second-guess himself, he pulled Micah into a loose embrace from behind. 

Micah gasped softly. "Callum?" 

Callum could feel the warmth of Micah's body, the faint hitch in his breathing, the way his heart raced beneath his touch. He let Micah's warmth seep into him, anchoring him in a way he hadn't realized he needed. His heartbeat slowed, steadying, as if borrowing strength from Micah's presence.

 "Thank you," he murmured. "For being my friend." 

Micah hesitated, then whispered. "Rule number one of friendship: you don't thank your friends for being your friends." 

Callum chuckled, stepping back and opening the door for him. "Yeah, yeah." 

As Micah stepped into the hallway, Callum added softly, "And for the record, Micah— there are no ugly parts of you. You're beautiful, through and through." 

Micah froze, his cheeks turning scarlet. But he said nothing and hurried ahead to hide his flustered smile.