Page 113 of Where Broken Wings Fly

Standing up, he pulls his t-shirt over his head and undresses. I’m sobbing too hard to protest as he steps out of his jeans, revealing short but lithe legs and packed abdominals.

He’s smaller and slimmer than the others, but still well-toned from hours of sculpting. His constant need to express his feelings through art has kept him in trim shape, bulking out his already generous biceps.

Keeping his boxers in place, he climbs into the huge bathtub with me. Water sloshes over the edges, overflowing from the extra weight. Micah slides in at the opposite end and instinctively, I reach out for him, needing to feel his arms around me.

Micah pulls me through the water and positions me between his legs. With his chest to my back, his chin lands on my shoulder, lips briefly kissing the side of my head.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

“Please don’t let go.”

“Never, angel.”

The suffocating darkness begins to abate as we soak in silence, allowing me to draw a stuttered breath. If I imagine that this bathtub makes up my entire world, everything feels less overwhelming. I can face this small feat first.

“Can I wash your hair for you?” Micah asks.

“I’d l-like that.”

Shifting behind me, he pushes me forwards slightly and encourages me to lean back. My hair is dunked into the water, and Micah’s hands run over my head. It feels amazing to be fawned over and cared for.

Reaching for the shelf of products to the left of the tub, he squirts shampoo into his hands and begins to massage it into my long tresses. My eyes fall shut, the tension leaving my body at the feel of his fingers massaging my scalp.

“Does that feel okay?”

“It feels amazing,” I whisper.

He begins to rinse off the shampoo. “Good.”

By the time he’s finished conditioning my hair, I’m half-asleep in the water. Micah drags me back against his chest, his nose burying in my freshly washed hair before his lips kiss the slope of my exposed neck.

I’m not sure what has changed for him to be comfortable touching me so freely, but I’m glad that something good has come of all this pain. We’re equals now. He knows I understand his grief better than most people, and that’s earned his trust.

“I’m so sorry for being a mess.”

“Stop apologising,” Micah murmurs. “We can be messes together.”

“You’re not a mess.”

“Not sure my brother or cousin would agree.” His chest presses against my back with a regretful sigh. “I’ve been in denial for a long time. It was easier to act like it’s normal to get so low, you don’t even want to be alive.”

“Denial is a powerful thing.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

We stay cuddled together until the water chills. When I can breathe without hiccupping and have no more tears left to shed, Micah places a gentle kiss against my temple. I tilt my head to look at him.

“You’re going to get through this,” he assures me.

“How do you know? I feel so lost.”

“For a long time, it felt like I couldn’t survive losing my dad. I felt so alone. Some days, I still feel like my world is ending. No matter how long I spend locked away, where I can’t inconvenience anyone with my misery.”

I stop breathing when his forest green eyes near, our noses brushing together. His lips push against mine in a tender whisper, entwining our hearts into a mournful waltz.

“If I can survive, so can you. Don’t make my mistake. Don’t lock people out and spend your life alone. It hurts less, but it isn’t living. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“You don’t?” I whisper.

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