Page 271 of Breathe Like Hell

“Yes.”

“You learned how to be an angel without me.”

“I always wished you could help me, but I had no choice. I was really scared,” I whispered, my ribs hitching on an inhale.

“I could help you now.” His thumbs stroked along my cheeks, the soft light from the ceiling bulb glistening on his skin. “What senses can you take?”

“Only voice and taste.” I scrunched up my face. “Taste feels pointless.”

“Well, you know sometimes the air has a taste in Heaven.” He tilted his head.

“Oh. I didn’t think about it.”

“They’re both useful,” he commented, eyes flicking all over my face.

“I wish I was like you.”

“I like you how you are.” The corners of his mouth pulled with a frown. More strength comes with more expectations, more responsibility, more weight. “I don’t want you to be like me. The more power I use, the less moral I become.”

“Can you still do it? Use your aspect?”

“I haven’t tried.”

After a moment, I felt the familiar brush of his consciousness exploring my mind, the same shadow-whisper sweeping over my painful emotions. Looking in his eyes, I tried to penetrate his own brain. His grip tightened on my jaw and he shook his head.

“Don’t.”

“Okay,” I whispered. “I won’t.”

But like when I’d felt for Mason’s emotions the very first time, it didn’t take me long to understand the landscape of Micah’s brain. Only a second in his mind, and I could feel the shadowy shape of his emotions. It made my heart hurt so much I wanted to cry.

“Don’t do that again,” he said. “Not unless I tell you it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I wasn’t thinking about it.”

Don’t touch me.

I know more than you think I do.

I understand how you’re feeling. More than you expect.

Bad things happen in Heaven, too.

I understood all of it. Understood why he wanted control, why letting me navigate any part of his labyrinth terrified him into hurting me, why he’d refused to touch these topics with me. And I loved him more than words.

We weren’t the same—not in the way Mason and I were the same—but a similar thread was stitched through both of our souls. He carried a wound like mine. Different origins, different coping mechanisms, but the same shade of vulnerability tinted by shame.

Micah turned off the shower, then wrapped me in a towel before grabbing his own.

We got dressed in pajamas then got into his bed.

He picked up the remote and turned the TV on, then waited for my input. I didn’t really want to watch anything other than him, though. Micah put the remote down and rolled on his side to look at me, my head laying on the pillow. His hand slid under my shirt to rest on my waist, his thumb stroking back and forth against my skin.

“Are you in pain now?” I whispered.

“It’s not unmanageable.” His voice was soothing. “My veins burn a bit, and my muscles ache, but I’m mostly just tired. I feel better than I did last night.”

Micah leaned down and brushed his lips against mine, pulling me closer by the hand on my waist. I softened for him, my eyelids fluttering shut, my lips parting, my heartbeat speeding up.