Page 129 of Broken Trails
He sits up slowly, dragging a hand through his hair as though the memory weighs too much. His jaw tightens as he swallows hard. “You’re lucky,” he says, quieter but no less intense. “You’ve got parents who give a shit. Who would protect you. Whofuckingchooseyou, even when they screw it up. You don’t know how rare that is.”
He doesn’t say it to hurt me. He says it because it’s true. Because it’s real. Because he’s lived the opposite. I don’t speak. I can’t. My thoughts are caught in the storm of his words—twisting, crashing, trying to find somewhere safe to land.
Because how do you respond to something like that?
What do you say to the boy who learned to live in a house made of landmines?
Who mistook silence for safety and pain for attention?
Michael tenses beside me. Just slightly. Like he’s bracing himself for rejection. For discomfort. But he doesn’t pull away when I shift closer to him, pressing my body to his, letting him feel my warmth.
“Michael, I—” I start, but my voice cracks.
This man. This beautiful, broken, impossible man—he’s been holding all of this in for years. Folding it neatly into the corners of himself, where no one could see. And now, somehow, he’s placing it in my hands. Gently. Like if I hold it wrong, it might break.
He glances at me, and something in his expression softens—just for a second—before confusion flickers behind his eyes.
“Hey, hey… don’t cry,” he says, brow furrowing as he reaches for me. “Why are you crying, Freckles?”
I don’t even realise I’m crying until my vision starts to blur. I blink hard, confused at first, and swipe the back of my hand across my cheek, only to find it wet. “Because everything you said yesterday…” My voice is uneven. “It makes sense now. Why you wanted me to try. Why you asked me not to give up.” I breathe in shakily. “I’m sorry for sounding like such an ungrateful bitch. That was never my intention.”
His fingers brush my cheek, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear with a gentleness that guts me. “You’re notungrateful,” he murmurs. “You’re hurting. We all carry things, Zoe. Some of us just got better at hiding them.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight, but I don’t look away. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For sharing that. For trusting me with it.” I shake my head, eyes fixed on his. “You didn’t have to, but you did. And that means something.”
His gaze drops for a moment, lashes brushing his cheek as he exhales. “I’ve lived with it for so long, it barely feels real anymore,” he says. “Just these pieces I carry around. Shit I don’t talk about because it doesn’t change anything. But it’s not all bad. My mum… she got better. She pulled herself out of it. Harrison and I, we’ve found our footing. We’re solid now. We’ve built something indestructible.”
There’s a quiet pride in his voice when he says it. “I’m okay now,” he adds. “Not perfect. Not fixed. But okay. And that’s more than I ever thought I’d be.” Michael hesitates, just for a second, and his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. “I, uh… need to be honest about why I bought you the lamp,” he adds. My eyes flick to the small lamp sitting on the worn-out bedside table, then back to him.
“Okay.” I nod.
“It’s for me. So I’ve got a light on when I sleep over.”
My heart cracks wide open.
He swallows hard, gaze flicking away. “I know it sounds stupid. I just… I don’t like the dark. Not fully. Not all the time. I don’t like not being able to see what’s around me.”
The realisation dawns on me, suddenly. A child’s fear that never fully left.
“Michael,” I whisper. “That’s not stupid.”
He still looks like he might shrink into himself. Like saying it aloud stripped him bare. I run my fingers across his cheek, over the stubble that dusts his face. “It’s not weak to need somethingthat makes you feel safe. It’s brave to know it, and even braver to say it.”
His eyes lift to mine, a little glassy, a little surprised. And I mean every word when I tell him softly, “I think it’s admirable. That you can open up. That you can face your fears and still show up. Still try.”
And the way my words come out so easily makes me truly see him in a different light. Really see him. Michael is not just the man who kissed me first. He is not the one who made me laugh when I forgot how. But the man who kept walking forward, even when the world tried to break him. Because I know now. And I won’t forget. I’ll never forget what it cost him to let me in.
And that he still chose softness.
Choseme.
37
Questions – CJ Fam
“Zoe,” Michael warns, his voice thick with lust and slight impatience. “Get up here before I make you.”
I blink up at the ceiling, heart stuttering, thighs trembling. Holy hell. This is not how I expected to start race day. Not in his bed. Not in his space. It’s my first time here—his granny flat tucked out the back of the Price property. Two bedrooms. A kitchen that’s clearly seen more takeout than cooking. Bare walls. A couch too small for someone his size, a TV that’s probably never turned on unless Joseph demandsBluey.
