Page 25 of Pucked Up

"I'm not asking yet, but when I do, it won't be because I don't know."

"Get some sleep, Noah."

I closed my eyes, though it made no difference in the darkness. The storm seemed farther away now, its violence separate from whatever was building between us. My body felt heavy, drained from my confession.

We remained silent, inches apart, neither sleeping, both aware that the distance couldn't last. Just before consciousness slipped away from me, I felt the slightest pressure of Micah's fingertips against my wrist.

They weren't holding or claiming. They merely rested there against my pulse point. Measuring my heartbeat, perhaps, or offering his own in exchange.

I didn't move. I didn't disturb whatever fragile thing was taking shape between us in the darkness.

I did let the sensation wash over me. It was a point of contact as sleep finally claimed me.

Chapter nine

Micah

Iwoke with my spine pressed against the cabin wall, trapped. Noah's body claimed the edge of the mattress, leaving me boxed in.

The narrow bed had seemed reasonable when I bought it—a place to collapse alone after days of pushing myself to exhaustion. Not a place to share. Not a place for another man's heat to seep through my clothes and into my skin.

His scent filled the shallow space between us—my shirt on his back, the salt of his sweat, and the unfamiliar intimacy of his breath. My hand curled against my chest as if holding something in.

The gap between my fingers and his exposed shoulder measured three inches. It was close enough that I could count the freckles scattered there, pale copper against winter-white skin.

Fucking rookie. Fucking reason I'm exiled. You shouldn't smell like someone I want to taste.

His shoulders were too still, and the muscles in his back were too rigid. That meant he was awake, pretending.

I had to move. I had to get out.

The mattress dipped and protested as I shifted my weight. I swung one leg carefully over his body, trying to hover rather than touch—an enforcer attempting grace.

It failed.

My hand brushed his hip, and my thigh pressed against his as I pivoted. I held my breath through the entire maneuver, lungs burning by the time I stood barefoot beside the bed.

Noah kept his eyes closed, but his jaw had tightened. We were both awake.

The power had kicked back on sometime during the night. The refrigerator hummed its electric hymn, a sound I'd stopped hearing until its absence made the cabin as quiet as a tomb. Now, its return marked a resumption of normality that felt false. Nothing was normal anymore.

I measured coffee grounds with surgical precision, focusing on the task to avoid thinking about the warm body still nestled in my sheets. The grinder's whine matched the noise in my head.

"Morning."

Noah's voice cut through the air. He stood and stretched his arms skyward. My shirt hung loose on his narrower frame. His hair stuck up on one side, eyes heavy-lidded but alert.

The sight of him punched something loose in my chest. I turned away, gripping the counter edge until my knuckles blanched white.

"Sleep okay?" It was my attempt at small talk. As if we were teammates sharing a hotel room on the road, not whatever the hell we were now.

"Better than I expected."

I poured coffee into two mugs without asking if he wanted any. Held one out. He stepped forward to take it, our fingers brushing in the exchange.

The contact blazed through my nerves like a shot of whiskey. His eyes caught mine and held. Neither of us looked away.

"Black okay?" I asked, though he was already drinking it.

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