Page 18 of Pucked Up

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, drawnlike 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.

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