Finally, he nodded—a barely perceptible dip of his chin that acknowledged what I'd offered.
"I need air," he said abruptly, pushing back from the table. The chair teetered for a moment before righting itself.
I watched him grab his coat from the hook by the door. He let in a blast of frigid air that stung my cheeks, followed by a slam that rattled the windows.
Through the frost-edged glass, I watched his broad form trudge through knee-deep snow toward the woodpile. He didn't look back.
Micah returned in the early afternoon, his skin wind-chapped and raw, exhaustion etched into the hollows beneath his eyes. He'd been out for hours, and we now had a woodpile stacked high enough to survive the apocalypse. He stood in the doorway, shedding snow from his boots, his breath coming in shallow bursts that clouded the air between us.
The fire I'd built cast the cabin in amber light. I'd spent the hours waiting, alternating between pacing and stillness, rehearsing words that dissolved on my tongue before I could speak them.
He moved past me and headed for the shower. I gave him his space. Time stretched, and the pipes rattled as water flowed, then stopped. More silence.
When he emerged, his hair was damp, and his skin flushed. He wore clean clothes—soft flannel pants and a thermal shirt worn thin at the elbows. He sank onto the couch, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the dancing flames.
I approached slowly, not wanting to startle him. The floorboards announced my presence with characteristic creaks and sighs. He didn't turn, but a muscle in his jaw tightened, acknowledging my approach without welcoming it.
Rather than sitting beside him, I moved behind the couch. Deliberate. Unhurried. I placed my hands on his shoulders, feeling the knots of tension beneath my palms. He stiffened but didn't shake me off.
I slid my arms around his chest from behind, a loose embrace that offered escape if he needed it. My cheek rested lightly against his back, where the damp thermal clung to his skin. His heartbeat thundered beneath my ear.
"Don't," he whispered, but his hands remained at his sides. He didn't pull away.
I stayed where I was, breathing him in—soap and pine. Heat radiated from his skin through the thin fabric, warming my forearms where they crossed his chest.
He trembled for a moment.
I rubbed his chest. "I'm not asking for anything. Only this."
His body went rigid beneath my touch, muscles coiled so tight I feared they might snap. I started to pull back, giving him space, but his hands caught mine, keeping them in place.
His voice was raw as he spoke. "I can throw someone against a wall. I can pin you. But lying still? Feeling you breathe?" He exhaled shakily. "I don't know how to do that."
A heartbeat passed.
"I worry that I'll fall apart."
His confession cut deeply. It wasn't unexpected, but hearing it out loud turned my guess into reality.
I pressed closer, tightening my arms around him. "Then fall." My lips brushed the nape of his neck. "I'm right here."
The fire popped, sending out a shower of sparks. Outside, darkness began to claim the forest, pressing against the windows like a living thing seeking entry.
I held Micah, steady and sure, while the clock on the mantel ticked away seconds that stretched into minutes. I didn't speak again. There was nothing to say that my body couldn't express more clearly.
I wasn't leaving. Not when the league came for him and not when the world expected me to hate him.
A seismic shift happened beneath my hands—imperceptible at first, then unmistakable. Micah's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. The coiled tension in his spine unspooled one vertebra at a time. He leaned back, not all at once, but in increments so small I might have missed them if I hadn't been pressed against him.
He was falling. Defenses built over decades were collapsing.
A low exhale shuddered through him. Then another, less ragged than the first.
I tightened my hold, molding myself to the contours of his back, my cheek still pressed between his shoulder blades. His heartbeat slowed, no longer beating at the frantic pace of trapped prey.
I whispered into the fabric of his shirt. "You don't have to be steel all the time."
He didn't respond verbally, but his fingers curled around mine where they rested against his chest. The calluses on his palm rasped against my knuckles.
