Page 13

Chapter thirteen

Micah

I watched Noah stretch and roll his shoulders in his borrowed flannel—my flannel—as he headed for the couch after dinner. His eyes tracked me when he thought I wasn't looking—quick flickers of assessment measuring the distance between us like checking ice for hairline fractures.

Our fire sputtered, flames receding into glowing orange coals. I added another log, watching as it caught reluctantly, bark blackening at the edges.

"I can get that," Noah insisted.

"I've got it."

He nodded once and settled in. I crossed to the cabinet where I kept my whiskey, a bottom-shelf brand that burned too much going down. For me, it was two fingers, no ice. Without asking, I poured a second glass and set it on the coffee table where Noah might claim it. Or not.

The liquor warmed my palm through the tumbler. I didn't drink, only watched how the firelight caught the rim, amber against glass.

Something was building in my chest—pressure against my ribs that felt like words trying to claw their way out—the ones I'd barricaded behind walls of muscle and bone for years.

Noah watched me. "Planning to drink that," he asked, "or just warm it up?"

I shrugged. "Haven't decided."

The couch dipped as I settled beside Noah, close enough for our body heat to mingle but far enough that we didn't touch. He smelled of laundry detergent and wood smoke, the soapy scent clinging to my clothes.

Minutes stretched between us, measured in the soft pop of burning pine and the occasional sigh of wind through poorly sealed windows. I stared at the fire, seeing something else entirely—fragments of memory flickering like the dying flames.

Noah spoke. "You looked like you were somewhere else just now."

I blinked. "Thinking."

"About?"

"Nothing important." The lie weighed heavy on my tongue.

Noah didn't press and didn't push. He let the silence resettle between us.

The thing that unnerved me most about Noah was his patience. He didn't demand answers or force confrontations. He waited, creating a space that begged to be filled, like standing at the edge of a frozen lake, feeling the ice crack beneath your weight but stepping forward anyway.

"I was fifteen." I heard myself speaking, but I wasn't sure the words came out of my mouth.

Noah froze beside me. He didn't look at me.

I kept my eyes fixed on the fire, watching orange embers pulse like exposed nerves. The whiskey in my hand trembled slightly, liquid rippling against the glass.

"I was fifteen," I said. "All elbows and knees, built like a scarecrow, still waiting on muscle to show up. We'd just won regionals, and the locker room was chaos—helmets flying, guys yelling over each other, everyone riding high on the win."

Noah's breathing changed subtly. He listened with his entire body now, hearing every shift in tone.

"Across the room, Logan caught my eye. His smile made you feel like you'd just been let in on a secret. Fast hands, fast laugh. We'd been dancing around something for weeks—brushes in the hallway, too-long glances, stupid jokes that left both of us blushing.

"When everyone else filtered out, he didn't leave. I didn't either."

Noah shifted slightly, angling his body toward mine without interrupting. His knee almost touched mine, but not quite—offering proximity without pressure.

"It was just a kiss. Clumsy as hell. We were shaking like leaves, both of us, but it was… electric. I'd never felt anything like it. First kiss for both of us, I think. Just steam and tile and the sound of our breath. And then it was over. We didn't talk about it. Just pulled our shirts on and pretended nothing had happened.

"Three days later, I found out what it had meant. At least to someone."

I swirled the whiskey in my glass, watching the amber liquid reflect the firelight.

"Practice ran late, and I was the last one in the showers. I heard them come in—Dougie, Ratner, and Mills. Seniors. They were guys with bad tempers and worse stats. I knew before I turned around.

"'Keller,' Dougie called out, voice bouncing off the tile. 'We need to talk.'"

Something cold settled in my gut.

"Before I could grab my towel, Mills yanked it off the hook. 'Faggots don't get towels,' he said."

The fire popped loudly, and I flinched.

"I remember the buzz of the lights and how the water dripped off my elbows—one drop, two, three.

"Ratner shoved me. My back hit the wall hard. I tried to stay upright, but the floor was slick, and I was already shaking."

I set my untouched whiskey on the table, needing both hands free. My fingers curled against my thighs.

"'You like boys, Keller?' Dougie asked. 'You watch us in the showers?'

"I didn't answer. Didn't give them anything."

My throat tightened around the next words.

"Ratner held my arms. Mills spit on me. I remember watching it slide down my chest like it wasn't even part of me.

"The first punch landed in my gut. I doubled over and couldn't breathe. The second one split my lip. After that—it's a blur. Noise and fists. The squeak of shoes on wet tile. My blood in my mouth."

Noah's fist clenched against his thigh. I couldn't look at him directly, but he radiated tension into the room.

"I still don't know which one cracked my rib. Or maybe I do and just won't let myself remember."

I paused, digging my fingernails into my palms until pain anchored me to the present.

"I didn't answer. There was no right answer. They weren't looking for one anyway."

From the corner of my eye, I watched Noah. His right hand drifted upward and touched his collarbone where I'd broken it. Survivor recognizing survivor.

"They took turns. Nothing creative—only fists and boots. They hit me in the ribs, face, and kidneys. Basic damage. I fought back at first. Landed a few solid hits, but it was three against one. They had sixty pounds on me combined."

The fire subsided to embers, casting the room in a dim orange light that made shadows leap and recede across the walls.

"When I couldn't stand anymore, Mills crouched down. He had blood on his knuckles—my blood. He whispered something in my ear." I swallowed hard. "'Wolves don't apologize.'"

I almost stopped there, but something pushed me forward.

"When they were done, they left me there. Curled up, naked, bleeding on cold concrete. No one came looking. No coach pulled me aside. At practice the next day, Logan wouldn't even meet my eyes."

I looked up finally, meeting Noah's gaze for the first time since I'd started speaking.

"I learned real fast how to bleed without making a sound."

Silence descended on us. The soft crackling of the embers was the only sound in the room.

I'd hollowed myself out, pulling vital information from my chest and laying it bare in the space between us. My pulse hammered in my throat as I waited for Noah's reaction.

I'd expected pity or discomfort. Maybe he'd shift awkwardly like someone who'd heard more than they bargained for. I'd seen it before—that subtle recoil when someone caught a glimpse of the darkness I carried inside.

Noah sat perfectly still. His expression wasn't horror or pity. It was something harder to define—a controlled fury mingled with understanding that cut to the bone.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, edged with emotion he didn't try to hide.

"I wish I could go back there. Not because I'd want to stop it. I'd want to find you after."

I stared at him, caught off guard by the unexpected response. It was a wish to have been what I'd needed most—someone who saw the aftermath and didn't look away.

I had spent fifteen years haunted not by the blows themselves but by the silence that followed. It was the profound loneliness of breathing through pain without witnesses.

I saw Noah fully for the first time. He wasn't the rookie I'd injured or the man who'd shown up at my door seeking answers. He was the man whose scars mirrored my own in ways I'd never contemplated.

Words fled from my throat. I managed a single nod, sharp and tight.

The space between us hummed with unspoken understanding. We didn't touch. We didn't need to.

Noah leaned forward, reaching past me to the coffee table. His sleeve brushed my arm, a whisper of contact that left heat in its wake. He picked up the second whiskey glass I'd poured earlier and hadn't touched. Without a word, he placed it closer to me, a silent offering.

"Drink it," he said softly. "Or don't."

There was no pressure in his voice, no expectation. Just acknowledgment that some wounds required anesthetic and others needed to breathe.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window frames. Tree branches scratched against the cabin's exterior like fingernails seeking entrance. Inside, the temperature had dropped as the fire died down, but neither of us moved to rebuild it.

I looked at the amber liquid, watching how it caught what little light remained. My reflection distorted on its surface—fragmented, but not shattered. I ran my thumb along the glass rim but didn't lift it.

Noah stood, stretching slightly. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight—a familiar sound that was the clearest evidence of his presence.

"I'm going to turn in." He wasn't fleeing. It was a mere statement of fact without expectation.

I nodded again, still not trusting my voice.

He paused and rested his hand briefly on my shoulder—a touch so light I could have imagined it. "When did you start fighting back?"

"The next day."

Noah nodded. "Same."

Then, he was gone, his footsteps receding down the hallway. The bedroom door closed with a soft click that echoed in the cabin.

I sat alone in the near-darkness, listening to the walls settling around me. The whiskey remained untouched. I didn't need it anymore—not tonight. The burning in my chest had subsided, replaced by a different sensation—something lighter, almost buoyant, that I couldn't yet name.

The confession was difficult, but for the first time in fifteen years, the memory's edges were less razor-sharp, as if sharing my story had dulled its power to cut.

Eventually, I rose from the couch, joints protesting after sitting motionless for so long. I extinguished the remaining embers.

I walked down the short hallway and paused at Noah's door, my hand hovering near the frame. No light spilled from underneath. There was no sound inside. After hesitating, I continued to my bed in the main room, undressing mechanically.

The sheets were cold against my skin as I slid beneath them. I lay on my back, staring at shadows that stretched across the ceiling. I thought sleep would be impossible, my brain wired despite bone-deep exhaustion.

Minutes or hours later, I heard the guest room door open. Noah's silhouette appeared against the hallway's deeper darkness. He moved without speaking, crossing to my bed with quiet purpose.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He settled beside me, not touching but close enough that his body heat radiated across the narrow gap between us. He lay on his side, back to me, spine a perfect line I could trace without seeing.

Neither of us spoke. Words would have been inadequate for the understanding that had formed between us. I turned onto my side, mirroring his position—back to back, not facing away from each other but facing outward together, spines aligned.

We didn't touch except where the mattress created a shallow valley that pressed our shoulders together. That single point of contact anchored me, a physical reminder that I wasn't alone with the ghosts I'd unleashed.

Noah's breathing gradually slowed, deepening into the rhythm of sleep. I lay awake longer, feeling the subtle expansion and contraction of his ribs against mine with each breath. There was something profound in sharing the same air—not intimacy in any conventional sense, but connection.

A thought surfaced just before sleep claimed me: He didn't flinch when I showed him the worst parts. He stayed. That could be the closest thing to an apology I've ever needed.

In my dreams, I ran through a winter forest. Snow crunched beneath paws I shouldn't have had. My breath clouded white against midnight air.

I wasn't alone—shapes moved through trees around me, silver-gray and silent. They were wolves, running alongside me.

One broke from the pack, larger than the others. It paused, watching me with eyes that reflected moonlight. A scar marked its flank—jagged and familiar. It was my scar, somehow transferred onto this creature of the night.

In the peculiar logic of dreams, I understood that I was the wolf, and it was me. We were separate but the same.

"Wolves don't apologize," I whispered, the words visible as frost in the dreamscape.

The wolf—my wolf—inclined its head. The phrase transformed between us, reborn as something different. It wasn't a taunt or condemnation. It was a recognition.

Wolves don't apologize because survival requires no justification. The pack doesn't question the origin of your scars, only whether you can still run.

I woke before dawn, Noah's back still pressed against mine. For once, I didn't immediately move away. I let myself exist in that shared warmth, absorbing the comfort of not being alone with my history.

Outside, snow continued to fall, covering our tracks from the day before. Like a scar, it erased most of the evidence of our presence but not the memory.

That was the thing about scars—they remained regardless of whether anyone else could see and acknowledge them. The difference was that now, someone had seen mine. And he didn't look away.