Today . . . when he’d thought Naomi might be in danger . . . he’d known with clarity that she’d found a place in his heart, whether he wanted that or not.
He couldn’t lose her too.
His gaze locked on hers. “I just need you to be careful. Please. No more running off alone. No more putting yourself in danger.”
“I know. I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
She looked at him, her eyes serious. “I promise. I’m sorry I did it earlier. I just . . . I hate feeling so helpless, and I saw it as my chance to do something. But I quickly realized how ill-equipped I was. That it was a big mistake.”
He nodded, some of the tension in his chest easing.
The two of them sat in silence, the blanket wrapped around them both, the swing creaking gently.
Naomi’s head tilted slightly and came to rest on his shoulder.
He relaxed into it and let himself feel the warmth of her beside him, the quiet comfort of her presence.
Naomi couldn’t breathe.
Caroline. A baby girl. Both of them—gone.
The weight of what Micah had just shared pressed down on her chest, heavy and unbearable.
She’d had no idea.
No idea he’d carried this. No idea that beneath all that competence was a man who’d lost everything. Who blamed himself for something that wasn’t his fault.
Her hand was still wrapped around his under the blanket, and she tightened her grip.
“Micah,” she whispered.
He didn’t look at her. He just stared out at the dark yard, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid.
She shifted on the swing, turning toward him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I had no idea.”
“It’s not something I talk about.”
“I know. But thank you. For telling me.”
He finally looked at her, and the pain in his eyes was so raw, so unguarded, that it took her breath away.
“You didn’t fail them,” she said again, more firm this time. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”
“Naomi—”
“It wasn’t. You can’t carry that. You can’t blame yourself for something you had no control over.”
His gaze searched hers as if he were looking for something—permission, maybe. Or absolution.
“Naomi . . . the truth is . . .” He licked his lips. “I’m terrified of losing you like I did Caroline.”
Warmth flooded her chest at his words. “You won’t. You won’t.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The mountain night pressed close around them, cold and still, and somewhere in the darkness an owl called once and went quiet. The blanket held their warmth between them like something worth keeping.
Then Micah leaned forward slowly and carefully.
