Not performatively good. Not the kind of good that needs applause.
The kind of good that tries not to cause trouble.
The kind of good that doesn’t ask too much.
The kind of good that makes itself easy to keep.
That’s what I’d been, for years.
Joy McKinley. Cheery. Responsible. The girl who could make a room feel lighter just by stepping into it. The girl who could take grief and turn it into flowers. The girl who could listen, comfort, fix, smooth, manage.
And yes—there was optimism in me. Real optimism. I wasn’t faking that.
But it was an optimism that had been built as a strategy.
Because if you believe life can be good, you don’t spend all your time waiting for it to fall apart.
And I had spent enough time waiting for things I couldn’t control.
Now, lying in the slant of sunlight with a man like Micah breathing against my shoulder, I didn’t feel ruined.
I felt … awake.
My body wasn’t shocked by what had happened. It wasn’t ashamed.
It was simply aware, in a new and startling way—like I’d been living in a house with one locked room for years and someone had finally turned the key.
I shifted slightly, testing my body.
There was tenderness—real, physical feedback, the kind you couldn’t ignore. Not pain, not exactly. More like a reminder. A quiet insistence: something happened here.
My cheeks warmed just at the thought.
Because that something had been Micah.
Micah, who looked like danger.
Micah, who had spoken to me in that garden like flowers were a waste.
Micah, who’d walked into my shop like he was marching into a place he didn’t deserve, apologized like it cost him something, and then looked at me like he couldn’t stop.
Micah, who had kissed me like restraint was a language he spoke fluently until it failed.
I turned my face slightly and looked at him.
In sleep, the hard lines of him softened. The tightness in his jaw loosened. His lashes rested against his cheeks. He looked younger in a way that didn’t make him less intimidating—it made him more human.
And something in my chest squeezed.
Because I’d spent my whole life believing that safe men were the only ones I could want.
And then I met one man who didn’t feel safe at all—who felt like a storm—and my body responded like it had been waiting for thunder.
Micah stirred.
Not fully awake. Just enough to tighten his arm around me, pulling me closer. His hand splayed over my stomach, warm and heavy, like his body had made a decision without consulting his brain.
The motion sent a ripple of sensation through me—half physical, half emotional.
