Page 22 of Pucked Up

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.

Chapter eight

Noah

The cabin groaned under the weight of darkness, old timber shifting and contracting as the temperature dropped. I sat with my back against the couch, knees pulled to my chest, listening to the walls complaining. The fire had dwindled to embers that cast more shadows than light.

Micah and I hadn't spoken since the kiss. Since then, he had pushed me away, pulled me back, and then pushed again—a rhythm I was starting to identify with him. Now, he crouched by the fireplace, muscles flexing beneath his thermal shirt as he arranged the kindling.

My lips still burned. In the aftermath, he'd looked at me like I was both salvation and ruin.

I drew the blanket tighter around my shoulders, but the chill had worked its way inside my bones. The storm outside had transformed from rage to something more insidious, a steady assault that found every crack in the cabin's armor. Without electricity, we were at its mercy.

"The temperature's still dropping," I said.

Micah grunted. It wasn't quite a word. His shoulders hunched forward as he blew gently on the newborn flame, coaxing it to catch.

"We need more wood," he finally announced, standing and brushing his hands against his thighs. "But it's too late to go out. We'll have to make do."

The fire sputtered, then flared weakly—a poor imitation of what we needed.

"And if it goes out completely?"

Micah's eyes met mine for the first time in hours, glacier-blue and unreadable. "Then we get creative."

The cold had teeth. Sharp ones that nipped at exposed skin and burrowed under clothes. I'd stopped trying to hide my shivering. Even Micah—a product of the northern wilderness—had started to pace, rubbing his hands together.

The storm had imprisoned us in this room in the aftermath of what we'd done and what we might still do.

"You know we're going to freeze if we sleep separately, right?"

Micah froze. He stood by the window, framed by darkness. Every muscle in his back went rigid like he was bracing for impact. I watched his reflection in the glass—how his jaw tightened and eyes narrowed.

He took a long pull from his water bottle, throat working as he swallowed. Finally, he turned.

"You saying we should share a bed?" His voice wasn't mocking or angry—it was carefully neutral, similar to someone discussing a business transaction.

I uncurled from my position on the floor, rising to my full height. I was not as tall as him, but I stood straight, shoulders back, chin slightly lifted. It was the stance I assumed before every face-off.

"I'm saying we share heat, or we both wake up frostbitten." I held onto the professional calm I'd perfected over years of hiding what I wanted, needed, and feared.

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