Page 7

Chapter seven

Micah

T he ax handle splintered against my palm, sending shards of wood into my skin. I cursed, tossing the broken tool onto the growing pile near the shed. It was my third this month. At this rate, I'd run out before spring.

Inside the cabin, the temperature had plummeted since morning, and even with the thermostat cranked, the chill seeped through every crack. I stuffed kindling beneath the grate, struck a match, and watched the flame hesitate before catching. The fire struggled but finally caught.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Not from the cold. From him.

Noah had vanished into the guest room after breakfast, leaving me to wrestle with the memory of almost crossing a line I was trying to avoid. His words from earlier burrowed under my skin: You left a mark . Three syllables that kept reopening a wound I couldn't seem to cauterize.

The wind shifted. No longer gusting but screaming—a continuous howl that made the cabin tremble. Through the window, the forest had transformed into a wall of white, trees vanishing behind curtains of snow. The pines bent nearly horizontal, branches heavy and surrendering to the storm.

Something about the pressure drop triggered a response in me—primitive, uncontrollable. My throat tightened. My pulse accelerated. Animals sense storms before they hit; maybe humans do too, when we're stripped down to bare instincts.

Outside, a branch snapped beneath the weight of ice, the crack reverberating through the woods like a gunshot. I tensed.

The forest watched. Not with eyes but with an awareness that made my spine prickle. As if something unseen approached.

I fed another log to the struggling fire. Sparks scattered, but the flames receded rather than climbed. The storm didn't want the heat to survive.

"You trying to burn the whole place down?"

Noah stood in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, an apparent nap. The shadows under his eyes matched mine. Neither of us had rested properly since he'd arrived.

"Fire's dying," I muttered, not meeting his gaze. "Storm's getting worse."

He crossed the room, kneeling beside me at the hearth. Close enough that his scent—sleep-warm skin and fading aftershave—overrode the smell of pine and smoke. His shoulder brushed mine as he reached for the poker.

"You've got it too close," he said, rearranging the logs to create space between them. "Needs room to breathe."

I watched his movements—confident and deliberate. A prickly sensation crawled up the back of my neck.

"Where'd you learn that?"

"Girl Scouts."

I smirked.

"No, seriously, my sister dragged me along sometimes. I was her human pack mule."

I tried to picture Noah as a kid, trailing after a bossy sister with his arms full of camping gear. "Could've used you back when—"

The cabin suddenly plunged into darkness. The absence of light stole the air from my lungs.

Neither of us moved. The darkness wasn't only the absence of light—it had its own presence. It filled the room like smoke, pressing against my skin and seeping into my mouth with each breath.

"Shit," Noah whispered.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. A memory ambushed me—huddled in the corner of the back porch during a thunderstorm at twelve years old, while inside the house, my parents' voices escalated until something shattered.

My breathing quickened, turning shallow. Fight-or-flight impulses flooded my brain, but there was nowhere to go. This was my place. My sanctuary. How could it turn into a trap?

"Micah?" Noah's voice seemed to come from far away. "You okay?"

I managed a grunt—noncommittal, barely human. The darkness amplified everything.

A storm raged outside. Ghosts haunted me inside. And now, Noah was somewhere in the blackness with me, witnessing me in a vulnerable state.

A floorboard creaked as he shifted. "I'm going to find a light. Don't move."

His footsteps receded down the hallway, accompanied by the soft thud of a hand trailing along the wall for guidance.

Alone in the dark, I listened to the cabin's groans. It brought back a memory of my father slamming a door during a blackout when I was seven, the sound so violent I'd been certain the house would splinter. I'd hidden in a closet for hours, knees pressed to my chest, counting my heartbeats until sunrise.

I slid down a wall until I hit the floor, legs folding beneath me. My hands pressed flat against the rough-hewn boards, splinters catching on my calluses. The blackness swallowed everything—depth, dimension, time. I stared straight ahead, seeing nothing.

I didn't call for Noah. I didn't want him to find me like this—hunched and hollow, trapped in a memory. Yet part of me ached for it like that moment on the ice when our eyes locked, a fraction of a second before impact. I'd wanted him to see me then, even the ugly parts. Maybe I still did.

Suddenly, a pinprick of gold pierced the darkness. It wavered and then grew stronger as it approached. The glow spread fingers of amber light across the floor and up the walls.

Noah appeared at the edge of the hallway, one hand cupped protectively around a candle. The flame danced, shifting pools of light and shadow across his face. His eyes connected with mine immediately, as if he'd known exactly where I'd be.

"Micah?" His voice was soft, a counterpoint to the storm's rage. He moved toward me, careful steps through the unfamiliar dark. "Hey."

I couldn't answer. Words had abandoned me, scattered in the wind howling outside. My jaw worked, but it produced nothing.

The floorboards creaked beneath Noah's weight as he crouched beside me. "Breathe," he said, not touching me yet, respecting the invisible barrier I'd constructed. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."

I followed his instruction without thinking, drawing air slowly through my nostrils and releasing it between parted lips. Once. Twice. My heart still hammered, but the vise around my chest loosened slightly.

Noah set the candle on the floor between us. Without asking permission, he lowered himself to sit beside me, our shoulders not quite touching. The heat of him radiated across the narrow gap, warmer than the candle's meager flame.

We sat in silence for several minutes. I focused on the candle, watching wax pool and drip down the sides. It was easier than looking at him.

"When I was nine," Noah said quietly, "we lost power during an ice storm. Three days in the dark. My dad was...not himself when it happened." He paused, weighing his words. "My sister and I slept in the bathtub with all the blankets we could find."

He offered the memory like a gift—a piece of himself to match my vulnerability. He didn't ask for elaboration on what had triggered me; he merely acknowledged that darkness did strange things to people.

"The quiet," I managed finally, my voice rough. "Can't stand it."

Noah nodded. "It's too loud."

That was it exactly. Silence amplified everything you tried to drown out—thoughts, memories, and regrets. It was all the things that thrived in the spaces between heartbeats.

He shifted slightly, turning to face me. He reached out with his right hand, and his palm came to rest over my heart, fingers splayed across my chest. Not possessive or demanding—only present. It was a steady, human point of contact, anchoring me to the moment.

I coughed, trying to catch my breath. My hand rose of its own accord, covering his where it pressed against my chest. Our fingers didn't intertwine, just overlapped, my calloused skin against the back of his hand.

"You're here," he said softly.

I nodded, holding his gaze in the flickering light. "I'm here."

The confession cost me. Admitting my presence meant admitting all that came with it—the fear, desire, and memories that clawed at the inside of my skull. I'd spent months in this cabin hiding from myself as much as from the world. Now, Noah had dragged me into the open, armed with nothing but a candle and the quiet certainty of his touch.

Noah leaned forward. His breath skimmed my lips, warm and coffee-scented. I knew what was next, and this time, he moved slowly enough that I could count my heartbeats in the space between us. One. Two. Three. I had plenty of time to pull away, but I didn't.

I couldn't.

His lips brushed mine—so light I could have been imagining it. Then again, more firmly.

I remained frozen for three excruciatingly long seconds. Then, something inside me broke, and I kissed him back.

It was different from before. It began softly, almost reverently—the gentle press of his mouth against mine and the shared breath between us. My hand crept up to cup the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the short hair there.

Then, the kiss deepened, not from passion but need—raw and unfiltered. It wasn't hunger for sex but for a wound to be examined, pressed open, and cleaned out by the heat of desire.

His tongue traced the seam of my lips, asking permission rather than demanding it. I granted access, a groan escaping from deep in my chest.

His hands framed my face, thumbs stroking along my jawline. I pulled him closer, nearly into my lap, suddenly starved for contact. The candle between us fluttered in the draft, shadows dancing wildly across the walls.

Suddenly, reality crashed back.

I jerked away, not from Noah but from myself—from the hunger that threatened to consume us both. My back hit the wall with enough force to rattle a picture frame. Noah remained perfectly still, his lips parted and glistening in the candlelight, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Terror gripped me—not of him, but of what I'd allowed myself to want. My fingers curled into fists so tight my knuckles cracked. For a heartbeat, violence was possible. I could destroy something. Drive my fist through the drywall. Overturn furniture.

Instead, I pressed my clenched hands to my temples, squeezing as if I could physically contain the storm raging inside my skull. My breath came in ragged bursts.

"I can't… I don't..."

The words caught in my throat. My fingers dug into my scalp hard enough to hurt, and I welcomed the pain—something concrete, something I understood.

How could I articulate a lifetime of living in the shadows? How the locker room tiles were cold against my bloodied cheek at fifteen. The way I'd learned to throw the first punch before anyone saw what I really wanted. The careful walls I'd constructed, brick by bloody brick, mortar mixed with shame and fear, now threatening to crumble beneath the simple touch of Noah's mouth on mine.

"This isn't—" I swallowed hard. "I'm not built for this."

He didn't retreat. He didn't even flinch. His steel-gray eyes watched me, steady as a lighthouse in fog.

"You didn't break me," he said quietly. "That's not why I'm here."

His words sliced through the chaos in my mind. I'd been so certain he'd come for vengeance—to return the damage I'd inflicted and balance the scales. Instead of seeking retribution, he was seeking recognition.

I looked at him—truly saw him for the first time since the moment before the hit. He clenched his jaw while his unwavering gaze refused to look away, even when faced with my ugliness. I saw the quiet strength that had carried him through hospital rooms and rehabilitation all the way to my door.

For a breath, hope flickered—fragile as the candle flame between us. Then I closed my eyes, unable to bear the weight of possibility.

"What if I hurt you again?"

"You might," he answered simply. "I might hurt you, too."

The honesty in his voice startled me. No false promises. No pretense that whatever existed between us would be easy or painless.

"I've spent my career hurting people," I said, the confession scraping my throat. "What if that's all I know how to do?"

Noah's gaze never wavered. "Then we learn something new."

Outside, another loud crack resonated as a tree branch surrendered to the weight of snow and ice. The sound jarred me back to our surroundings—the dark cabin and dying fire.

Noah reached out, his hand finding the back of my neck. "Come on," he said. "Let's get you up."

His strength surprised me as he helped me to my feet. My legs trembled, muscles stiff from being tensed too long. His hand remained on my neck, thumb stroking the short hairs at my nape.

We didn't speak again. Words were inadequate, too limited to contain what had passed between us. Noah guided me toward the hearth, where the fire had dwindled to embers. He knelt, coaxing the coals back to life with patient attention, adding kindling until flames licked upward once more.

I sank to the floor beside him, back against the couch. Noah settled next to me in the light of the flickering candle, close enough that our shoulders brushed.

The storm continued its assault, battering the cabin with unrelenting fury, but something inside was quieter. The panic receded, replaced by a profound exhaustion that sank into my marrow.

"When I was a kid," I said, "my father used to say storms were God's way of reminding us how small we are."

Noah's shoulder pressed against mine, warm and solid. "What do you think?"

I watched the shadows play across his profile. "I think they remind us we're not alone. Everyone hears the same thunder."

He nodded. We fell silent again, listening to the wind's hollow moan and the occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace.

In the dark, with Noah beside me, I didn't feel like a monster. I was only a man waiting for the storm to pass.