Page 6

Chapter six

Noah

I stood at the window, watching as the first flakes drifted down like ash from a distant fire. Not the heavy, dramatic kind that demands attention but the quiet, insidious type that piles up and smothers. The kind that traps.

My reflection stared back at me, ghostly against the darkening forest beyond. I wrapped my arms around my ribs, pressing against something coiled and tight inside.

The door banged open behind me. Micah stomped in, each boot strike deliberate. Ice clung to his laces, melting into small puddles on the worn floorboards. He didn't look up as he worked at the knots with savage focus.

"You should've left hours ago."

He didn't merely look tired—he appeared hollowed out. Like the snow wasn't only clinging to his boots but clawing at the inside of him, too.

His lack of sleep was catching up. He hadn't slept in days, at least not the kind that gives rest.

I kept my eyes on the thickening curtain of white. "Can't leave now. Roads are already iced. It's coming down fast." I paused. "Unless you want me to spin out in a ditch and freeze to death."

He made a sound—half snort and half growl. "Wouldn't be the first goddamn rookie who didn't listen to a warning."

The cabin creaked around us, wood contracting in the dropping temperature. I listened to him moving behind me. It was the sound of a man trying not to explode.

I didn't turn, not yet, but the time to end the circling was drawing near.

"What do you remember about it?" I asked, the words falling into the room like stones into a still pond.

Micah's shoulders bunched beneath his thermal shirt, muscles knotting along his spine. "About what?"

I turned from the window and leaned against the frame. The cold glass pressed against my back. "The hit. The moment before."

He scoffed. It was a sharp, ugly sound. He brushed past me, shoulder nearly clipping mine, his heat a sudden, jarring contrast to the chill at my back.

"Ancient history," he muttered, crouching before the fireplace. He jabbed at the embers with an iron poker, sending sparks skittering across the blackened brick.

I followed, my sock feet silent on the worn planks. I stood close enough that my shadow fell across his hunched form. "I remember it in slow motion. Like film. Not the pain. It's that second before." I swallowed. "Your eyes. You looked right at me, Micah. And you hit me anyway."

The poker stopped. His knuckles whitened around the metal. For three heartbeats, he didn't move or breathe—just stared into the flames.

"So what?" His voice was rough at the edges. "I've hit a hundred guys who deserved it less."

"But you never looked at them first. Not like that."

A log shifted, collapsing into a nest of orange coals. In the sudden flare of light, I gazed at the muscle twitching in his jaw.

Micah rose from his crouch. "You're acting like it meant something."

"It did."

I stepped closer, hands hanging loose at my sides. The fire's heat pushed against my front while the window's chill clung to my back.

"You saw something in me. And you hit it." My voice dropped lower. "You chose to hit it."

Micah recoiled like I'd swung at him. He took two quick steps backward, his shoulders squaring and his jaw tight. His eyes—reflecting almost a midnight blue in the firelit room—flicked from my face to the door, calculating escape routes.

"Jesus, Langley." He raked fingers through his hair, silver threading the dark strands at his temples. "You're twisted."

I didn't flinch. Something was unraveling between us, thread by thread, and I wasn't about to cut it short. The fire popped and hissed, embers landing on the stone hearth. Outside, the wind picked up, moaning through the eaves like something wounded.

"I've played against a hundred guys who hit out of instinct. Reflex." I took another step, closing the space between us. I watched his eyes track the movement. "Not you. You made a decision."

"Yeah, a bad one that cost me my career."

"That's not what I mean."

Micah laughed bitterly. "Then what the hell do you mean? From where I'm standing, you drove eight hours through endless pine trees to tell me I fucked up your life. Message received. Now drop it. You leave when the storm settles."

"I drove here to understand why I can't stop thinking about it." It was a new confession. "Why, when I close my eyes at night, I don't see the hit. I only see the second before."

Something shifted in his face—a crack in the armor and a momentary glimpse of the man beneath the enforcer. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. For the first time since I'd arrived, he didn't have a quick response.

"What do you want from me?"

"The truth."

"Fuck. How many times are you going to say that?" The cabin groaned around us, the old beams settling under the accumulating weight of snow. Micah's chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths.

He was starting to crack, and I wasn't about to leave. Not until I knew.

"I needed it," I said, the words barely audible over the rising howl of the wind outside. "Not the bruise. Not the fallout. It was that moment before. You saw me, and I needed that."

Micah's brow furrowed. "You're not making sense."

"No one ever looks at me like that." I flexed my fingers, fighting the urge to reach for him. "Not my family. Not my teammates. You saw past the mask and decided to break something open."

A chaotic roar of memories drowned out everything else in my head for a moment. My father's voice—"Stand up straight. Smile. Make them like you"—while my mother pressed ice to the bruises he'd left. I remembered the endless string of performances as Noah Langley, the promising rookie with the right pedigree and the perfect smile.

And finally, Micah barreling toward me on the ice blotted the rest out. He set loose the hunger in me. The rage. The need to feel something real, even if it hurt.

"I spent my whole life being what everyone wanted," I continued, voice steadier. "The right words. The right smile. The right moves on the ice. And then you—" I gestured at him, at the space between us. "You looked at me like you knew. Like you could see right through it all."

Micah's hands curled into fists at his sides. "So what? I'm supposed to apologize for knocking you into next week? For seeing whatever fucked-up thing you think I saw?"

"No." I shook my head, stepping closer to him. "I'm saying thank you."

"For what?"

"For being the only person who ever saw me and didn't look away."

Silence filled the gap between us. Outside, the storm raged, snow blanketing the world in white silence. Inside, something equally powerful gathered force.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Micah growled. "You came here with some fantasy about what happened. About me. But it wasn't like that."

"Wasn't it?" I held his gaze. "You could have hit anyone on that play. But you chose me."

"So what?"

"So, now I'm choosing you."

Micah backed toward the wall as if he were retreating from something dangerous. His arms crossed over his chest, forming a barrier between us, but his eyes never left mine.

"Stay there," he warned. It wasn't an angry statement. It was closer to fear.

I ignored him, closing the final distance between us. The floorboards creaked beneath my weight. Firelight flickered across his face and caught in the hollow of his throat.

"You left a mark," I said. "Not only on my body. On everything."

"You don't know what the hell you're asking for."

"I do."

His hand shot out, gripping the fabric of my shirt in his fist. The knuckles pressed against my chest—not quite a push or a pull. He held me there, suspended.

"You think you want this?" His voice dropped to a low rumble. "You think because I hit you once, that gives you the right to come here and—"

"And what?" I didn't move, didn't try to break his hold. My heart hammered against his knuckles.

His face was inches from mine. Close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in his irises and close enough to smell pine, sweat, and whatever cheap soap he used.

"You should be afraid of me," he said.

"I'm not."

Micah's eyes dropped to my mouth for a moment- just one. His grip on my shirt tightened, then relaxed, fingers uncurling slowly. I felt his breath on my face, whiskey-warm and uneven. A war played out behind his eyes—want versus fear and instinct versus control.

I stayed motionless. Waiting. The cabin held its breath around us. Even the fire's crackling softened.

Then something broke in him. He released my shirt so abruptly that I staggered back half a step. Micah stepped away from the wall.

"Stay the hell away from me," he snarled.

He pushed past me, shoulder knocking mine hard enough to bruise. Three long strides took him to the door. He yanked it open, letting in a blast of frigid air and swirling snow, and stepped out into the storm without a coat and boots.

The door slammed behind him, the sound reverberating through the cabin like a gunshot. I sucked in a breath, dizzy from the aftermath, then moved toward the window, drawn like a magnet to the unfolding spectacle. The glass had fogged from the room's heat, but I pressed my forehead to it anyway, squinting into the snow.

There he was.

Micah stumbled off the porch, boots forgotten inside, socked feet crunching down into the drifts. The wind took him sideways, his frame curling against it. He didn't stop. He kept going until the woods rose up around him.

He dropped to his knees.

I saw it—clearly, horrifically—his body folding forward, arms planted in the snow. For one awful second, I thought he'd collapsed. Then, he punched the ground. Once. Twice. A third time.

He tilted his head back and roared something at the trees, the sound torn away by the wind before it reached me. His shoulders heaved like he was trying to rip his chest open from the inside out. Then, he was still.

I pressed my palm to the glass, aching to reach him, but I didn't move. Not yet. He wasn't a man asking for help. He was a man trying to burn something out of himself—something ugly and old and buried too long.

Snow swirled around him in blinding flurries, sticking to his hair and lashes. I counted the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Still, he didn't move.

Then, slowly, Micah tipped his head down and pressed both hands to his face. When he looked up again, something had changed. His spine was straighter. His jaw clenched.

He stood.

He turned.

He came back.

I pivoted from the window, back to the fire's dwindling warmth, waiting for him to come back inside, for the storm to drive him back to me. For the inevitable collision we'd been circling since that first moment on the ice.

Whatever he was afraid of, it was already inside, with me.