Page 16 of Pucked Up

Later, we sat in front of the dying fire, the silence between us shifting from hostile to something more complex. The warmth from the hearth had faded to a dull glow, casting long shadows across the cabin floor. Occasionally, Noah would turn a page in the paperback he'd found on my bookshelf. I pretended to sharpen my knife, the stone scraping rhythmically.

He edged closer, supposedly to catch the fading light. I stiffened, my muscles coiling with the instinct to either flinch or fight. I wasn't sure which.

Through the corner of my eye, I watched the firelight play across his features. The shadows emphasized the sharp cut of his jaw and the hollow beneath his cheekbone. He was studying me too, I realized—quick glances when he thought I wasn't looking.

What happened to you, Micah?

The question hung in the air, unspoken. Noah didn't say it. Not out loud. Still, I heard it.

And beneath it, my own questions circled like vultures:Why are you really here? Do you want the man who hit you? Or are you waiting for him to do it again?

The knife slipped in my hand, nearly catching my finger. I set it down, suddenly exhausted beyond words.

"I'm turning in," I announced, getting to my feet.

Noah looked up, his face unreadable in the dim light. "Goodnight, Micah."

He said my name like he was testing how it felt in his mouth.

In bed, I stared at the ceiling, listening to Noah move around. There was a soft creak from the couch as he settled onto it. I rolled onto my side and faced the wall.

He should've left after breakfast. Should never have come at all.

But maybe I wanted him to stay.

Sleep refused to come. I lay awake with my mind racing, caught between the memory of violence and the strange, unnerving peace of sharing space with the person I'd hurt. Tomorrow, he might leave.

Tonight, though, we both breathed the same air, sheltered by the same roof. And somehow, that was like both punishment and grace.

Chapter six

Noah

Istood 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."

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