Micah’s movements pause momentarily. When he speaks again, his voice carries a weight of experience. “We’re all more than the worst thing we’ve done, Naomi. Even when that thing was necessary for survival.”
I wonder briefly whatworsethings Micah has done, what experiences shape this philosophy. The thought of his past—the parts Lucas shared in bitter tirades, and the mysteries that remain—brings a curious mixture of unease and fascination.
“Eat.” He sets a plate down before me, the pasta fragrant with garlic and herbs. “It helps to face things with strength.”
For the first time since he brought me here, I am genuinely hungry. The simple act of caring for my basic needs—food, shelter, safety—without demanding anything in return feels like a revelation. I take a bite, the flavors bright and satisfying.
“It’s good,” I tell him, genuine appreciation in my voice. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
In the few months I’d been living under his roof, I’d prepared all the meals. It was a small act I could provide as a thank you for helping me.
A small smile touches his lips, softening the weathered planes of his face. “Bachelor life teaches certain necessities. Nothing fancy, but it keeps body and soul together.”
We eat in companionable silence, the cabin warm from the dimming fireplace. Outside, night has fully claimed the forest, pressing dark against the windows. Inside, this small circle of light holds at bay not just the physical darkness, but the shadowed thoughts that have plagued me since my last attack.
As we finish eating, Micah rises to clear the plates. I follow, taking my dish to the sink. Our hands brush as I reach for the faucet, a momentary contact that sends an unexpected jolt through me. I step back, confused by my reaction.
Micah notices—of course he does, hyperawareness seems built into him—but says nothing. He simply continues washing dishes, allowing me to retreat to the safety of the small chair near the fireplace.
I curl there with Powder, who promptly settles in my lap, kneading my thigh with rhythmic paws. Through half-closed eyes, I watch Micah move around the kitchen, his large frame somehow fitting naturally in the modest space. There is comfort in his presence, a steadiness that calms the jagged edges of my thoughts.
When the kitchen is clean, he joins me near the fireplace, settling into the leather armchair opposite me. The one he’s been sleeping in since our arrival. The distance between us feels carefully calculated—close enough for conversation, far enough for comfort.
“Tomorrow I’ll need to return to Columbus for a business meeting,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence. “It’s important. Sorry I have to leave you here alone so much.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him, though the prospect of more solitude brings mixed feelings. “I’ve managed these past days.”
“Barely eating, barely sleeping,” he says. “I’ve left supplies in the kitchen—perhaps baking will help pass the time.”
The thoughtfulness of this gesture tightens my throat again. “Thank you.”
He nods, his expression turning more serious. “I’m sorry you have to stay here. I just … until I know things are going to be okay, I can’t risk anyone finding you.”
Fear rises, sharp and immediate. “Can I at least talk to my friends?”
“No.” His certainty is reassuring. “No contact with former friends or acquaintances until I know it’s safe. Give it a little more time.”
The reality of my new existence solidifies with his words. I am, in many ways, as dead as Lucas—my old life inaccessible, my future undefined. The bakery dream seems suddenly childish, impossibly distant.
“It’s temporary.” Micah adds, reading my expression. “Just until the police confirms his death was drug related. Then you can rebuild, whatever that looks like for you.”
And how long will that take? Earlier he said however long it takes. What if it takes years? What of my life then? The prospect overwhelms me suddenly, tears stinging my eyes. I blink rapidly, unwilling to break down now after holding myself together these past days.
Micah moves from his chair, moving to kneel beside me. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from him. His presence anchors me as the wave of emotion crests, then recedes.
“One day at a time,” he says quietly. “Sometimes one hour at a time. That’s how we get through.”
“We,” I repeat, finding strange comfort in the word. “You keep saying that.”
“Because you’re not alone in this.” His dark eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I made you a promise when I brought you to the cabin. I intend to keep it.”
The conviction in his voice settles something inside me. Whatever comes—Sandra’s insistence, the complications of returning to Columbus, the long process of rebuilding a life—I won’t face it alone. This man, who owes me nothing, who should by all rights hate me for killing his son, has instead become my protector, my ally, my lifeline.
“Why are you helping me?” The question that’s been circling in my mind finally emerges. “After what I did to Lucas—”
“You didn’t do anythingtoLucas,” Micah corrects gently. “You defended yourselffromhim. There’s a difference.”
“Still. He was your son.”