Page 42 of Pucked Up

"Still okay?"

I turned my head enough to meet his gaze over my shoulder. "I'm with you."

He delivered the final strike—the hardest yet, but somehow also the most controlled.

"Ten," I breathed, letting my forehead drop to the mattress as the sensation radiated through my body.

Micah's hands turned gentle, sliding up my spine with unexpected tenderness. The contrast between sharp impact and soothing touch created its own kind of intensity.

I turned in his arms, facing him. We had crossed some invisible boundary together. Not by breaking through walls but by carefully dismantling them, brick by brick, with full awareness of what each removal exposed.

We sat side by side on the bed's edge, the mattress dipping beneath our combined weight. My body hummed with the lingering sensations—skin warm and tender in places, muscles pleasantly taxed. It wasn't only pain or pleasure but some complex blend.

Micah's breathing steadied, and his face had an expression I hadn't seen before. It was a kind of stunned clarity as if he'd glimpsed something unexpected in himself and wasn't sure what to make of it.

I watched as he absently flexed his right wrist, rotating it with a subtle wince that he probably thought I wouldn't notice. Without a word, I reached for the small container of salve I'd spotted earlier on the nightstand. It had a dented tin and a label worn nearly smooth from handling. I unscrewed the cap, releasing the sharp medicinal scent of camphor.

Micah tensed as I took his hand, but he didn't pull away. His skin was hot against my palm, the tendons in his wrist standing out in sharp relief.

"You don't have to—"

"I know." I dipped my fingers into the salve and began working it into his wrist with careful pressure, feeling for the places where tension gathered. "Let me anyway."

He fell silent, watching my hands move over his. My thumbs found a knot of scar tissue along his outer wrist and pressed gently, working in small circles. Micah's inhale was sharp but not pained, his fingers curling slightly before relaxing under my attention.

"Old break?"

He nodded. "Junior year. Bad check into the boards."

I continued working, careful to apply pressure without causing pain, finding the balance between therapeutic discomfort and genuine relief. His skin warmed further under my touch, blood flow increasing where I'd loosened stubborn knots.

I let my thumbs move slowly, circling the scar tissue of old injuries. I found a particularly tight cluster near the base of his thumb and paused, softening the pressure.

His voice came so quietly, I almost missed it.

"That's where my father used to grab me."

My hands froze.

"Not when he hit me. Just before."He exhaled slowly, like it cost him something."Right there. Thumb over the wristbone. Every time."

The words landed with the weight of something too long buried. He wasn't looking at me—his eyes were on the far wall, unfocused, like he was watching someone else's hands instead of mine.

"I don't think I've let anyone touch it since."

I didn't speak. I didn't move. I just let the silence stretch—real, solid, and heavy with something that wasn't shame.

Then, gently, I adjusted my touch. I didn't stop. I just softened the motion.

I pressed my fingers into his palm and whispered,"I'm not here to take it from you."

His eyes flicked to mine.

"I'm here, so you don't have to carry it alone."

Micah's jaw twitched, but he didn't speak. He didn't pull away, either. His hand stayed cradled in mine like something fragile that had finally stopped bracing for impact.

And for once, neither of us tried to fill the quiet.

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