Page 12

Chapter twelve

Noah

T he dinner plates sat empty between us, the remnants of a meal neither of us had tasted. Micah had cooked—some pasta with jarred sauce that he'd doctored with herbs from a dusty cabinet. I'd watched his hands work, those same hands that had touched me with desperate hunger two nights in a row. Now, they meticulously chopped dried basil like it required all his concentration.

Now, he wouldn't look at me. The tension had moved back into his shoulders. It was a protective hunch that kept the world at a calculated distance. Somehow, the physical intimacy we shared triggered his retreat, as if giving in to desire had only reminded him why he usually denied it.

I couldn't bear the silence. It felt too much like erasure—of what we'd shared and what we might still become.

I rose to carry my plate to the sink. "What if you'd hit someone else that night?"

Micah raised his head, and his fork clattered against his plate.

"What?"

"On the ice. What If it had been Anderson or Miller on the boards instead of me? Would you have hit them the same way?"

He looked away, focusing on his water glass as if it held answers. "I've hit a lot of guys. It was my job."

"That's not what I asked." I refused to let him dodge the question, "Would you have looked at them like you looked at me? Would you have hit them the same way?"

Micah's knuckles whitened around his glass. "I might've gotten suspended, but I wouldn't have cared."

It was a powerful confirmation. Hearing him admit that I was different sent a current through me that felt almost like vertigo.

I spoke softly. "So it was me, something about me, specifically."

"You saw something you weren't supposed to."

I challenged him. "In you or myself?"

Micah didn't answer, but his breathing changed—faster and shallower.

I finally broke the silence. "I saw you, too. That's why I'm here instead of somewhere—anywhere—else."

He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping against worn floorboards. For a moment, I thought he might walk out. Instead, he remained standing, caught between fight and flight, the decision warring across his features.

Micah sighed heavily. "You should've stayed away."

I understood then that his withdrawal had something to do with fear. Not of me but of what I represented: recognition and exposure. I might force him to look inward and see himself.

I stood, closing the distance between us. He didn't back away, but he braced himself subtly.

I pushed. "You looked at me like you wanted to break me open out there on the ice. I think you did, but I'm here."

His jaw twitched. "Come on. Haven't we been through this enough? What do you want from me now, Noah?"

"I want to explore it—the darkness. I want to know what's between us," adding in carefully chosen words, "but on my terms."

"Your terms?"

"Rules. Control. Consent." I paused. "Clarity."

Micah's brow furrowed. He took a half-step back, looking for space to think.

"You don't understand what you're asking. You don't know me well enough. You don't know what I have done and what I might do."

"I understand more than you think." I matched his tone, calm and deliberate. "You're not the only one who's lived with hunger, Micah. Not the only one who's learned to hide your desires."

He shook his head, turning toward the window where the darkness outside pressed against the glass. His reflection stared back—eyes haunted by something deep inside.

"You don't know me. Not really."

"I know enough." I moved to stand behind him, not quite touching. "I know you're afraid of what lives inside you. The parts that want without apology."

His shoulders tensed. "And that doesn't scare you?"

"No." The certainty in my voice surprised me. "It doesn't."

He turned slowly to face me. "It should."

"I'm not afraid of you, Micah."

Something shifted in his expression—a subtle crack in the fortress he'd built around himself. It wasn't a full surrender, but he was starting to consider it.

"What exactly are you proposing?"

I took a deep breath. I needed to be direct. It wasn't a time to hide.

"That we explore the power and hunger between us, but we need boundaries."

"Boundaries." He tested the word with his lips and tongue.

"Safe words, for starters. Something either of us can say that means stop immediately. No questions asked."

Micah nodded slowly, processing. "'Red Line for me. I've used it before."

"Good. Mine will be Timeout." I maintained eye contact, ensuring he understood the significance. "No marks without permission. No closed fists."

"And if I—" He swallowed, unable to finish the thought.

"If either of us uses the safe word, everything stops. Instantly." I kept my voice firm. "This isn't about hurting. It's about truth."

"Truth? That's what you think this is?"

"I think it's the closest either of us has come to it in a long time."

"Okay," he said quietly. "Your terms."

We'd reached an agreement—fragile but real. I reached out slowly, palm up. After a moment's hesitation, Micah's hand settled in mine.

"I'm not asking you to be someone else," I exhaled. "I'm asking you to show me who you already are."

His fingers tightened around mine briefly before releasing. The cabin creaked around us, wooden bones settling as the temperature dropped outside.

We'd crossed a threshold. The path ahead was unknown, but we'd deliberately chosen it.

Micah followed me to the guest room. It felt different now—transformed by intention rather than impulse. I'd lit the old oil lamp on the bedside table, its amber glow catching on the rough-hewn ceiling beams and dancing across the faded quilt.

The room smelled of pine resin, wood smoke that had seeped into the walls over the years, and the faint metallic scent of approaching snow through the barely sealed window frame. Even the air was different—expectant, carrying the electric charge of boundaries about to be tested.

Micah stood just inside the doorway, his frame silhouetted against the hallway's deeper shadows. His chest rose and fell with measured breathing.

I broke the silence. "You can still change your mind."

"So can you."

I shook my head. "I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?"

I understood it was a crucial moment, not only for tonight but for the future of our relationship. It wasn't about casual exploration. It was about opening ourselves up to each other.

I spoke softly. "This isn't a game to me. And it's not therapy." I held his gaze, needing him to understand. "My whole life I've been what others needed me to be—the promising rookie, the dutiful son, the perfect prospect. Always performing, always hidden. But that moment on the ice, when you saw through it all—"

My voice wavered slightly. "For the first time, someone saw past the mask. I need to know if we can find that clarity again, but this time with both of us choosing it. This is about recognition, Micah. For both of us."

After a pause, he nodded and stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sealed us into a two-person world.

I sat on the edge of the bed, keeping my posture open. Micah remained standing, his large frame imposing in the lamp's flickering shadows.

"Don't worry. I'm not testing you." I chose my words with care. "I'm showing you one of my strengths."

"And what is that?"

"Knowing what I want and not being afraid to look for it and ask for it."

He moved closer to me. I spotted a slight tremor in his hands.

"I don't want to hurt you." His voice was slightly rough, like fine-grained sandpaper."

"It's not about hurting. It's about power and the space it occupies between us. Sometimes, pain is just the clearest language we have available to explain it."

Micah's eyes opened wider. He appeared to finally understand what I was offering. It wasn't merely submission. It was a collaboration—exploring the darkness together and leaving a trail back home.

"Where do we start?"

I stood. "With trust." I tilted my head slightly and exposed my jaw. "Slap me."

Micah suddenly appeared wary. "Noah—"

"Not hard, but enough for me to feel it."

He hesitated.

"It's okay. I'm asking for it."

Micah lifted his hand, palm open. His fingers trembled. When his hand connected with my cheek, the slap was carefully monitored—sharp enough to sting but far from his full strength.

Heat bloomed across my skin. I breathed through, locking my eyes on Micah's rugged face. He appeared slightly shaken as he curled his fingers into a fist at his side.

"Again."

"Again," I said, voice steadier than I'd expected.

The second strike was more confident—not harder, but less hesitant. The sound cracked through the quiet room, followed by the soft catch of my inhale. My nerve endings sang, sensation cascading from the point of impact down my spine, pooling low in my belly.

Micah's breathing turned ragged. "On the bed," he commanded in a firm voice.

I complied, lying back against the sheets, arms slightly spread.

"Hold me down," I instructed.

He moved over me, powerful thighs bracketing my hips as he captured my wrists in one fluid motion, pinning them above my head. His grip was firm but not crushing—a cage I could break if I genuinely wanted to. The restraint itself was what mattered. It was a deliberate exchange of power.

I tested his hold, pushing against his hands just enough to feel the resistance. Micah's fingers tightened fractionally, a silent response to my challenge.

"I trust you," I whispered.

Micah's expression softened, some of the tension draining away. That made him appear more dangerous and less restrained. He lowered his head until his mouth hovered over the pulse point in my throat.

"Tell me if I go too far."

"I will."

His teeth closed over the tendon at the junction of my neck and shoulder—not breaking the skin but leaving an impression that sent electric currents racing throughout my body. I arched into the pressure, a soft sound escaping my throat.

Micah worked his way down my body, pulling my t-shirt up and off and mapping skin and muscle with teeth and tongue. He placed each bite carefully—shoulder, collarbone, ribs, and the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. It was hard enough to leave temporary marks but never crossed into intense pain.

When he flipped me without warning, hauling me by the hips to the edge of the bed, the display of raw strength sent a rush of heat through my core. His hands spanned my waist, fingers digging into muscle with restrained hunger.

I resisted just enough—not fighting but providing a counterpoint, something for his dominance to push against.

"Like this?"

"Yes," I breathed, face half-pressed into the sheets. "Like that."

He positioned my body, guiding my hips up until my back formed a subtle arch. As he tugged off my sweatpants, he made me vulnerable in ways that transcended simple nakedness.

Micah's palm rubbed over the curve of my ass, the touch almost reverent.

"Count," he instructed.

The first strike caught me by surprise despite my anticipation. A sharp crack echoed in the small room. Heat bloomed across my ass, radiating outward from the point of impact.

"One," I counted, voice clear and steady.

The second came harder, drawing a sharp inhale through my teeth.

"Two."

By the fifth, my skin burned pleasantly, nerve endings alight with sensation. Micah's rhythm was methodical, each strike carefully placed and measured, never twice in the same spot. I counted each one, the numbers serving as a mantra.

After the ninth, he paused. His palm rested against my heated skin.

"Still okay?"

I turned my head enough to meet his gaze over my shoulder. "I'm with you."

He delivered the final strike—the hardest yet, but somehow also the most controlled.

"Ten," I breathed, letting my forehead drop to the mattress as the sensation radiated through my body.

Micah's hands turned gentle, sliding up my spine with unexpected tenderness. The contrast between sharp impact and soothing touch created its own kind of intensity.

I turned in his arms, facing him. We had crossed some invisible boundary together. Not by breaking through walls but by carefully dismantling them, brick by brick, with full awareness of what each removal exposed.

We sat side by side on the bed's edge, the mattress dipping beneath our combined weight. My body hummed with the lingering sensations—skin warm and tender in places, muscles pleasantly taxed. It wasn't only pain or pleasure but some complex blend.

Micah's breathing steadied, and his face had an expression I hadn't seen before. It was a kind of stunned clarity as if he'd glimpsed something unexpected in himself and wasn't sure what to make of it.

I watched as he absently flexed his right wrist, rotating it with a subtle wince that he probably thought I wouldn't notice. Without a word, I reached for the small container of salve I'd spotted earlier on the nightstand. It had a dented tin and a label worn nearly smooth from handling. I unscrewed the cap, releasing the sharp medicinal scent of camphor.

Micah tensed as I took his hand, but he didn't pull away. His skin was hot against my palm, the tendons in his wrist standing out in sharp relief.

"You don't have to—"

"I know." I dipped my fingers into the salve and began working it into his wrist with careful pressure, feeling for the places where tension gathered. "Let me anyway."

He fell silent, watching my hands move over his. My thumbs found a knot of scar tissue along his outer wrist and pressed gently, working in small circles. Micah's inhale was sharp but not pained, his fingers curling slightly before relaxing under my attention.

"Old break?"

He nodded. "Junior year. Bad check into the boards."

I continued working, careful to apply pressure without causing pain, finding the balance between therapeutic discomfort and genuine relief. His skin warmed further under my touch, blood flow increasing where I'd loosened stubborn knots.

I let my thumbs move slowly, circling the scar tissue of old injuries. I found a particularly tight cluster near the base of his thumb and paused, softening the pressure.

His voice came so quietly, I almost missed it.

"That's where my father used to grab me."

My hands froze.

"Not when he hit me. Just before."He exhaled slowly, like it cost him something."Right there. Thumb over the wristbone. Every time."

The words landed with the weight of something too long buried. He wasn't looking at me—his eyes were on the far wall, unfocused, like he was watching someone else's hands instead of mine.

"I don't think I've let anyone touch it since."

I didn't speak. I didn't move. I just let the silence stretch—real, solid, and heavy with something that wasn't shame.

Then, gently, I adjusted my touch. I didn't stop. I just softened the motion.

I pressed my fingers into his palm and whispered,"I'm not here to take it from you."

His eyes flicked to mine.

"I'm here, so you don't have to carry it alone."

Micah's jaw twitched, but he didn't speak. He didn't pull away, either. His hand stayed cradled in mine like something fragile that had finally stopped bracing for impact.

And for once, neither of us tried to fill the quiet.

I finished with his wrist and moved to his hand, working salve into the callused palm and between his knuckles. His fingers were powerful but surprisingly elegant—a craftsman's hands, capable of both destruction and creation. Hands that had split wood and carved a wolf.

"Thank you."

I glanced up, catching his gaze in the dim light. What I saw wasn't the fearsome enforcer or the wounded man in exile, but someone new—or perhaps someone who had been there all along, buried beneath layers of armor and expectation.

"For what?" I asked.

"For not letting me hide."

The simplicity of the statement caught me off-guard. I closed the salve tin and set it aside but kept my hand on his, maintaining our connection.

"That's not what this was about," I said softly. "Breaking through your walls by force."

"I know. It was about being let inside."

The insight surprised me—not because it was wrong, but because it was so precisely right. He'd understood what I'd barely articulated to myself.

Outside, the wind had picked up again, whistling through the pines that surrounded the cabin. Inside, the room had grown cooler as the fire in the main room died down, but neither of us moved to stoke it or retrieve more blankets.

The chill was clarifying, a counterpoint to the heat we'd generated. It kept us present, anchored in the reality of this remote cabin and the unexpected connection we'd forged within its walls.

As I glanced toward the window, I realized that what we'd discovered wasn't about pain or control at all. It was about translation—finding a language to bridge the gap between Micah's isolation and my search for authenticity.

Through each calculated touch and each boundary explored, we'd begun writing something new. It was neither his story nor mine alone, but something shared. Something real.

The vocabulary of bruises and boundaries had given us what words alone couldn't: a way to read each other's truths without looking away.