Without conscious thought, my hand slides down my stomach beneath the water. I gasp softly as my fingers find my center, already swollen and sensitive. Guilt wars with desire as I begin to touch myself, but I can’t stop the fantasy now.
In my mind, Micah’s deep voice whispers praise against my ear as his fingers replace mine. I imagine how his large hands would feel, how he would know exactly how to touch me. My hips rock against my own fingers as the fantasy builds.
The water laps against the tub’s edges as my movements grow more urgent. I picture Micah’s muscled body pressing me into the mattress, those intense eyes watching me come undone beneath him. My breathing turns ragged as pleasure coils tighter.
When release finally crashes over me, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out his name. My body trembles through the aftershocks as reality slowly returns. The water has grown tepid, my skin flushed from more than just the heat.
I sink deeper into the tub, shame and satisfaction battling for dominance. What am I doing, fantasizing about Micah like this? He’s my protector, my father-in-law. I killed his son. These feelings are wrong on so many levels.
Yet I can’t deny how alive he makes me feel, how safe. After years of Lucas’s cruelty, Micah’s gentleness calls to something deep inside me. Something I thought had died long ago.
When I finally emerge, my fingers wrinkled and my hair damp from the steam, sunlight slants through the windows. I wrap myself in the oversized towel Micah left on the wooden towel stand, its softness surprising against my skin. Everything here speaks of careful consideration—small comforts thoughtfully provided in this rustic sanctuary.
I dress in clothes Micah brought from his apartment—a soft flannel shirt that drowns my smaller frame, and another pair of leggings. At some point, I’m going to have to figure out how towash clothes. I don’t have very much to choose from. A problem for another day.
Instead, I focus on the practical. I brush my hair, leaving it loose to dry naturally around my shoulders. I remake the bed with hospital corners like my grandmother taught me, straighten the already-tidy kitchen, check the pantry supplies. Routine provides structure in the formlessness of fear.
As the morning fades into the afternoon and the afternoon fades toward evening, restlessness drives me onto the narrow porch that wraps around two sides of the cabin. The rain has stopped, leaving the forest dripping and fragrant. When the temperatures drop tonight, it’ll turn into a crystalline utopia. The small lake beyond the clearing glimmers with reflected sky, its surface rippled by a frigid breeze that makes me wish I’d put on my coat.
The beauty strikes me with unexpected force, bringing tears to my eyes. How long has it been since I simply noticed the world around me? Lucas’s control extended even to this. My attention always directed inward, vigilant for his moods, his desires, his anger. I’d forgotten how to look outward, to see beyond immediate threat.
I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the scent of wet earth and decaying forest leaves. The air feels cleaner here, sharper. It cuts through the fog that’s surrounded me since the knife entered Lucas’s chest.
I’m alive, I think with sudden clarity.Whatever comes next, I’m alive.
The realization doesn’t erase the horror of what happened or the uncertainty ahead, but it settles something inside me. A foundation to build upon, perhaps. A place to start.
When dusk approaches, I return inside, closing the door against the evening chill. Powder greets me with a questioningmeow, as though asking where I’ve been. I scoop her up, burying my face in her soft fur.
“Just breathing,” I tell her quietly.
My hands shake from coldness as I toss more wood in the fireplace and restart the fire from the faint embers that remain. I let it go too long without feeding it and it’s barely burning.
I settle cross-legged on the braided rug in front of the fireplace waiting to absorb its warmth. Powder curls contentedly in my lap. The last light of day filters through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. I should turn on lamps, push back the gathering darkness, but I remain motionless. The dimness matches my mood—that gray space between terror and numbness where I’ve existed these past few days.
I don’t know how long I sit there before the sound of tires on gravel pulls me back to reality. The fire is burning stronger now, its warmth seeping into my skin.
Headlights sweep across the cabin windows as a vehicle approaches, cutting bright paths through the deepening twilight. Powder leaps from my lap, trotting expectantly toward the door with her tail held high. I remain seated, heart accelerating.
The door opens, and Micah’s large frame fills the entrance. The sight of him—solid, real, connected to the world outside this isolated cabin—brings an unexpected surge of emotion. Relief, primarily, but also something less definable. I remain rooted in place as he sets down grocery bags and shrugs off his jacket. His eyes find me in the dimness.
Without speaking, he moves through the cabin, turning on lamps that cast a warm golden glow over the space. The shadows retreat to corners as light reclaims the room. I watch him silently, noting the careful precision of his movements, the economy of effort that speaks of self-discipline.
He unpacks the groceries methodically. A variety of fresh bread, fruits, vegetables, and proteins. Then baking ingredients: flour, sugar, vanilla, and chocolate chips. The sight of these familiar items, tools of my passion, brings a tightness to my throat. It’s such a small thing, this acknowledgment of who I am beyond my trauma. Yet it feels monumental.
Micah approaches where I’m sitting, his movements careful, as though I might startle like a wild animal. He towers over me, his broad shoulders blocking the lamplight. Up close, I notice the fatigue etched in the lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw partially hidden by his beard. He’s been working tirelessly while I’ve been in hiding.
“You haven’t eaten much,” he says, glancing toward the kitchen where evidence of my meager meals remains.
“I’m not very hungry these days.”
My voice sounds rough from disuse. I clear my throat, strangely self-conscious. The weight of all the unsaid things between us—his son’s death at my hands, his role in covering it up, our uncertain future—makes simple exchanges feel impossible.
Gently, unexpectedly, he cups my chin with fingers, tilting my face toward the light. His dark eyes study me with an intensity that should feel invasive but somehow doesn’t. His gaze lingers on the fading bruises on my throat. Something flashes in Micah’s expression—anger, perhaps, or regret.
“You’re lovely,” he says quietly, his deep voice rumbling in the small space. “You should have been cherished, not beaten.”
The words wash over me like a physical caress, settling deep in places long cold and neglected. No one has spoken to me with such simple appreciation. Lucas’s compliments always came with conditions, with expectations. Micah’s words ask nothing of me, offer nothing but recognition of a truth I had forgotten.