“Okay, so you traveled thousands of miles from the Bermuda Triangle to New York? I have to say, you’re a good storyteller.”

  Micah’s gaze darkened. “I’m not lying, human. Now feed me.”

  Noah narrowed his eyes. “I don’t owe you food. Ask nicely.”

  Micah smirked. “Make me.”

  “You… ugh, fine.” Noah groaned, heading into the kitchen. He filled a bowl with soup and handed it over. Micah devoured it in seconds, then demanded more — not asked, demanded. Before Noah knew it, the entire pot of stew was gone, vanished in less than five minutes.

  Micah leaned back with a satisfied sigh, then casually rested his head on Noah’s lap.

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  “Excuse me? What are you doing?” Noah sputtered, face flushing.

  “I require sleep. Your lap is soft.”

  “Eh?! I am not a pillow! Get off me!”

  Micah tilted his head, ears twitching impatiently. “Then how do I sleep?”

  “On the couch.”

  “What is that?”

  Noah blinked. “Are you serious right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the thing you’re sitting on.”

  Micah glanced down at the cushions with disdain. “This… twisted piece of furniture is simply not worthy of me.”

  “You act like you’re some kind of royal.”

  “I am a chief’s son.”

  “Whatevs.” Noah rolled his eyes, grabbing a blanket and pillow. He shoved them into Micah’s arms. Micah stared at the couch again, as though it had personally insulted him.

  “Anyway, goodnight.” Noah muttered, retreating to his room, cheeks still warm. He shut the door behind him, leaning against it with a sigh.

  What have I gotten myself into? I’ve got a hot, arrogant boy in my house. What more do I need?