It wasn't a question that needed an answer, but it deserved one.
I stared at the back of his neck and how it curved down into his shoulders. Faint red marks bloomed along the collar line, proof of my presence.
"Mine forgets," I said. "Until someone touches the right place."
He didn't move.
I continued my thought. "Then it comes back all at once."
A few beats passed before Noah lifted his head. "Is that what I am to you? The right place?"
I didn't know.
I wanted to sayno, but that might have been a lie. I also wanted to sayyes, but that wasn't it either.
I didn't say anything.
Pushing off the doorframe, I stepped into the room and sat on the bed beside him. It wasn't close enough to touch.
We sat like that for a while. I looked down. His hands were shaking.
I turned my hand over. The right one. The bitten one. I left it palm-up between us, not offering anything. It was just there.
Noah glanced down. He didn't take it, but he didn't move away either.
I decided to stay.
Chapter sixteen
Noah
The cabin's wooden bones creaked under winter's pressure, settling sounds that rippled through the predawn darkness. I woke to the weight of Micah's arm slung across my chest—heavy and signifying half-ownership and half-protection. Outside, snow had fallen again during the night, blanketing the world in a profound hush.
I watched Micah sleep, taking in details I'd never seen before. The permanent crease between his eyebrows had smoothed away. His jaw hung slack, no longer braced against invisible blows. His stubble had grown thicker, salt-and-pepper at the temples—a detail the harsh stadium lights never revealed.
In sleep, the enforcer vanished, leaving behind someone I barely recognized. Someone without armor.
This thing between us wasn't merely an obsession anymore. It was something quieter now. It was something that might thrive in the daylight.
I eased myself from beneath his arm, careful not to disturb the quiet. His fingers twitched, seeking warmth as I slipped away,but he didn't wake. The floorboards whispered beneath my feet as I navigated the narrow path to the kitchen.
The coffee tin was nearly empty, the last grounds clinging to the bottom corners. I scraped together enough for a pot. Water gurgled through the ancient machine, its rhythm matching the pulse in my veins.
Something shifted in the atmosphere—not a sound or a sight. It was more like a change in air pressure.
I poured a mug and cupped it between my palms, absorbing heat into my hands. The coffee tasted bitter. Grounds had slipped past the filter to coat my tongue. I swallowed anyway.
Beyond the windows, the forest watched over us, each branch weighed down with fresh snow. Perfect, pristine. Undisturbed.
It wouldn't last. Nothing that perfect ever did.
Heavy footsteps announced Micah's approach before he appeared. He entered the kitchen with a towel draped around his neck, hair damp and skin flushed from washing up. Beads of water clung to his shoulders, darkening his thermal shirt in uneven patches.
"Made you coffee." I handed him a mug.
He grunted his thanks, a sound I'd learned to interpret as gratitude. Our fingers brushed during the exchange. We moved around each other with the unconscious choreography of bodies growing accustomed to sharing space.
Micah reached for the sugar while I stepped aside to let him pass. I popped up two slices of toast while he retrieved the butter from the counter. No collisions.
