Page 34 of Pucked Up

I drifted toward sleep, lulled by Micah's steady breathing and the cocoon of warmth we'd created. Micah's lips pressed against the top of my head, so softly I would have believed I'd imagined it.

"Sleep," he whispered. "I'm here."

Just before consciousness slipped away completely, Micah murmured something against my hair. The words were too soft to distinguish, half-formed things that might have been my name or a prayer or nothing coherent at all.

I smiled into his skin and let sleep claim me, anchored by his presence and the certainty that whatever had begun between us was far from over.

Chapter eleven

Micah

Morning came like a thief, stealing warmth from the edges of the bed. I woke before dawn, habit dragging me from sleep despite the comfort of Noah's heat pressed against my back.

His breathing brushed my neck in even, steady puffs—dreamless and deep. The cabin was tomb-quiet, that peculiar silence that settles when snow blankets the world outside.

I counted his breaths while gathering the will to move. One. Two. Three. The rhythm almost lulled me back under.

His arm lay heavy across my waist. During the night, he'd curled around me, his chest flush against my spine, legs tangled with mine. I couldn't remember the last time anyone held me like that—maybe never.

I shifted, careful not to disturb him, easing his arm up just enough to slide out from beneath it. The mattress dipped and protested as I sat up, legs dangling over the edge. Noah murmured something unintelligible, face burrowing deeper into the pillow, but he didn't wake.

When I rotated my shoulder to stand, fire blazed through the joint like lightning striking a dead pine. The pain radiated down my arm and across my back. The nerve endings in my fingers tingled.

I bit the inside of my cheek, trapping the sound that threatened to escape. The burn wasn't unfamiliar—old injuries often awakened in the cold, reminding me of every hit I'd taken and delivered over fifteen brutal seasons.

You're not twenty anymore. And if he sees it—

I glanced back at Noah, still lost to sleep, face soft and unguarded. He didn't need to see this part of me, my failing machinery. The idea of seeing pity in those gray eyes was worse than the pain itself.

I flexed my fingers experimentally, coaxing circulation back. They responded sluggishly, like they belonged to someone else.

Frost had etched intricate patterns across the windows overnight, transforming the glass with delicate designs.

I pulled on sweatpants and an old thermal shirt. The floorboards creaked beneath my weight as I navigated the familiar path to the kitchen.

The counter was cold beneath my palms as I measured coffee grounds. Water gurgled through the machine, a counterpoint to the occasional pop and shift of the cabin settling around me. The heater kicked on with a mechanical sigh, breathing warmth into the stillness.

A few minutes later, the coffee finished brewing, filling the air with an earthy richness that temporarily masked the scent of pine and woodsmoke that clung to everything. I poured a cup and watched the steam rise in lazy curls that dissipated inches from the surface. My hand trembled slightly as I lifted the mug, a spasm that sent coffee sloshing against the rim.

A sharp breath hissed through my teeth as I set the mug down harder than intended. The liquid shivered, nearly spilling over. Ipressed my palm flat against the table to steady it, watching as the tremor gradually subsided.

Just the cold. Just yesterday's work. Nothing more.

It was a lie, but it managed to soothe my mind for the moment.

I sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around the mug, absorbing its heat. The cabin came alive around me—the subtle tick of expanding pipes, a whisper of heat through vents, and a steady dripping sound as the ice melted on the roof.

I took a sip of coffee, its scalding bitterness a welcome distraction from the ache that had taken up residence in my bones. The kitchen grew marginally brighter as dawn crept closer, pushing shadows into corners but leaving enough darkness for comfort. I preferred the early hours when the day hadn't fully committed to itself yet.

With Noah still asleep, I pulled open the bottom drawer beside the sink—a catch-all space for things with nowhere else to belong. Beneath a tangle of mismatched utensils and forgotten instruction manuals lay a small cedar block roughly the size of my palm. I'd cut it months ago from a fallen branch, intending to carve something meaningful during the long winter nights ahead. Instead, it had sat untouched, waiting for its purpose.

I turned it over in my hands, testing its weight. The grain ran clean and straight, with no hidden knots to complicate the work. My pocket knife opened with practiced ease, the blade worn from years of everyday use. The first shaving curled away from the wood like a question mark, falling silently onto the table's scarred surface.

My right hand protested the first few cuts, but I pushed through the stiffness. The repetitive motion gradually loosened the seized tendons, and the pain receded to a dull background throb. Each careful stroke removed what didn't belong until something truer began to emerge from beneath my hands.

I worked without conscious intention, letting muscle memory guide the blade. The shape revealed itself gradually—pointed ears, a narrow muzzle, and eyes that watched over me. A wolf took form chip by chip.

I'd never been good with words. As a kid, explanations tangled in my throat, leaving me frustrated and misunderstood. My hands had always known how to speak for me—on the ice, in a fight, or in moments like this, when the wood surrendered to my blade and became something meaningful.

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