When I finally ran out of steam, breathing hard like I'd been in a fight instead of just yelling at a man on his own front porch, there was a long pause.
The morning air felt thick between us, humid and weighted.
Birds sang in the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a boat motor hummed.
Then, for the first time since I'd met him, Micah's eyes softened. Not pity. Not condescension. Not the look people gave broken things they were trying to fix.
Something gentler. Something that looked almost like understanding, like recognition, like he'd stood exactly where I was standing and knew how it felt.
"There's someone you need to see," he said quietly.
"I don't want to see anyone," I shot back immediately, defensive. "I want answers. I want to know what I'm walking into. What you're asking me to risk."
"I know." His voice was gentle, almost sad, like he understood more than I wanted him to, like he could see straight through me to all the broken parts I tried to hide. "But this first. Trust me."
"Trust you?" I laughed, bitter and sharp. "I don't even know you. I don't know what you do, who you work for, what you're really offering?—"
"No," he agreed, cutting me off with the simple acknowledgment. "But you will. And after you see this, you'll understand why I couldn't just ... explain. Some things you have to witness."
Something in his body language—the way he stood, the careful stillness, the way his shoulders had dropped like he was carrying weight I couldn't see, like whatever he was about to show me was heavy for him, too—made me hesitate.
Made me follow when he turned and walked inside without checking to see if I'd come.
As we stepped through the door into the cool, elegant foyer with its marble floors and crystal chandelier, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out automatically, expecting ... I don't know. Mama P asking where I was. My CO checking in. Some automated bullshit.
Sophie's text filled the screen.
I woke up and you were gone. I'm not mad. I'm not spiraling. I'm just ... here. I hope you're okay. And I hope you kept the buckle.
Damn.
The words hit like a fist to the chest, knocking the wind out of me, deflating all that righteous anger I'd been building like a shield between me and everything I didn't want to feel.
She wasn't mad. She wasn't spiraling. She wasn't demanding explanations or making me feel worse than I already did or listing all the ways I'd fucked up.
She was just ... there.
Waiting. Trusting. Giving me space I didn't deserve and grace I hadn't earned.
Believing in me, even when I'd given her every reason not to.
Fucking coward.
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, a thousand responses crowding my throat and none of them adequate, none of them enough.
I'm sorry.
I love you.
I don't know how to be what you need.
I'm broken and I'm going to break you, too, if you let me.
You deserve better than this. Better than me.
But I didn't respond.
