Page 24 of Pucked Up

"What did you think?"

The silence stretched so long that I thought he wouldn't answer. Then:

"I saw you. That second—on the ice. I don't know how. Just… saw something. And I broke it. Because that's what I do."

The bed frame creaked as he shifted, still not turning toward me. I saw only the curve of his bare shoulder.

"You didn't. I'm still here."

A soft exhale. "Yeah. That's the part I can't figure out."

"Maybe we're the same kind of broken."

They were words I could only admit in the darkness.

"There's nothing same about us," Micah insisted. He wanted to sound hard, but I sensed cracks.

"You're wrong."

He didn't answer.

The candle flickered, its flame shrinking as wax pooled beneath it. Soon, we'd be in complete darkness. I watched its struggle against the inevitable, mesmerized by how something so small could fight so hard to survive.

A question had been building inside me. I didn't know whether it was my place to ask, but it felt like the only question that mattered.

"Are you going to hurt me again?"

Micah's breath fell out of sync with mine for the first time in what might have been hours. I heard him swallow.

I didn't clarify. I didn't specify if I meant on the ice, in this bed, or in all the ways people can break each other without touching. The ambiguity was deliberate. The answer mattered regardless.

"Only if you ask."

His response was so quiet that I might have missed it if I hadn't been holding my breath waiting. The words were simple, but they landed with the weight of our world behind them.

Only if you ask.

It wasn't a denial but a vow to never again take the choice from me.

I thought about asking. Not for violence or the kind of hurt that leaves bruises or breaks bones. I would ask for something else—the kind of hurt that comes from being seen too clearly and being known too well. The kind that feels like falling when you're unsure what waits at the bottom.

The candle's flame gave one final flicker, then died, plunging us into darkness so complete I couldn't see my hand in front of my face or Micah beside me. I could feel him—the heat radiating from his body, the slight dip in the mattress from his weight, and the rhythm of his breath that had once again fallen into perfect sync with mine.

"I might," I whispered into the darkness.

Micah's hand moved beneath the blankets. It didn't touch me, but it was close enough that my skin prickled in anticipation. His fingers curled into a fist against the sheet, knuckles brushing the side of my thigh for a fraction of a second before withdrawing.

That ghost of contact—barely there, immediately gone—sent electricity arcing through me. More powerful for its brevity. More devastating for its restraint.

I wondered whether he was remembering the kiss. Did his lips burn the way mine did? Was he fighting the same war between want and wisdom?

Micah's voice was rough and sandpapery when he spoke. "You don't know what you're asking for."

I thought of everything I could say in response:

I'd been hurt before, and I'd survived it. Sometimes, pain was the only way I knew I was still alive. When he'd hit me on the ice, something had awakened in me that had been sleeping my entire life.

Unfortunately, none were the complete truth, and I was tired of half-truths.

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