Page 179 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“I c-can do it.”

“Good. Hold on then.”

With amazingly gentle hands, he lifts me from the bathtub and places me on the counter next to the sink basin. I nuzzle his neck while cuddling him tight, hiding from the world. I feel like such a failure.

Micah presses a soft kiss against my hair. “Breathe, Willow.”

“Please don’t let go of me.”

“I swear to you, angel. I will never let go of you.”

We stay wrapped together like twisted vines until there’s another knock at the door, lighter this time, and he retreats to answer. Heavy breathing emanates from the hallway.

“Can I help?” Zach asks frantically.

“We’re good here. I’ll get her cleaned up.”

“Mi, please. I want to help.”

“If you want to help, then go.”

Shutting the door in Zach’s heartbroken face, Micah returns to settle between my parted legs. He rummages in the first aid kit, threading a needle ready for stitches.

“Micah? Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Yeah, I do. I need to clean your arm first. It might hurt a bit.”

“I’m so s-sorry. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“Stop beating yourself up.” Hesitating, he rolls up the cuff of his shirt, exposing his wrist to me. “I know what you’re going through, and I’m not here to judge.”

Inspecting his skin, I study the uneven, silvery scars from old self-inflicted cuts. Micah shivers when I trail a shaking finger over a particularly nasty one. He knows. He doesn’t hate me. He isn’t disgusted. He… is me.

“Hold still now. I’ll go as fast as I can.”

I barely flinch as he douses the cuts on my arm in bottled antiseptic and presses a cotton ball against the flow of blood. My pain tolerance is scarily high. The burning fades into the background and I focus on nothing but him.

His luminous green eyes. Messy, caramel streaked hair. The shining ring in his nose. Kindness clinging to his every move. All the tiny details that I’ve longed to memorise.

“Deep breath,” he murmurs.

Micah traps his bottom lip between his teeth as he glides the needle through my skin and begins to stitch up the cuts in neat rows. His eyes continuously flick up to me.

“You good?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“Sorry if I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not.”

Snipping the last stitch, he checks over his work. The stitches are perfect. Almost too perfect. The silver streaks of anguish on his skin speak for themselves. Micah knows all about inflicting pain on the outside to reflect within.

Back inside the first aid kit, he retrieves a small roll of cotton bandage. I lift my arm, allowing him to wind it around in a tight spiral to hold everything in place. Even the way he seals the bandage with a scrap of tape is deft.

“All done.”

“Thanks, Mi.”

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