Chapter 14 Kellan
Kellan
I walk through the soft grass near the lake, the ground slightly damp from morning dew that hasn't fully evaporated.
The sandwich I just ate sits heavy but satisfied in my stomach, a simple turkey and swiss from one of the small shops Micah spotted.
Nothing fancy, but it tasted better than most of the expensive meals Tom drags me to for appearances.
This place brings back memories I haven't thought about in years.
Days when I was much younger, maybe seven or eight, and my parents would bring me here to play with the other kids.
I'd run around with toy instruments made from empty coffee cans and wooden spoons, banging out rhythms while other children played soccer or flew kites.
My parents would sit on one of these benches, watching and smiling, proud of their weird kid who heard music in everything.
That life feels like it belonged to someone else. That happy child with parents who loved him and a future full of possibilities. That life morphed into the one I have now, the contracts and the image management and the constant pressure to be someone I'm not sure I ever really was.
I feel Micah's fingers beside mine as we walk, close enough to brush but not quite touching. The contact is so slight it could be accidental, but I know it's not. I make a decision and reach over, threading my fingers through his properly, palm to palm.
Micah makes a sound of appreciation, a soft hum that goes straight to my chest. His hand is warm and rough with calluses, solid and real in a way that grounds me.
"So tell me about yourself, Micah."
Micah laughs, the sound genuine and a little surprised. "Is that what we're doing? Getting to know each other like a normal couple on a normal date?"
I shrug. "We have to know each other if we're going to sell this. Might as well start with the basics."
"Okay, uh..." Micah trails off, organizing his thoughts.
"I'm twenty-eight. Grew up in the same small town where I still live.
My dad worked construction his whole life, same company I work for now.
He taught me everything I know about building and fixing things.
How to read blueprints, how to measure twice and cut once, how to take pride in work well done. "
He squeezes my hand slightly. "Mom left when I was twelve. Just packed a bag one day and disappeared. Dad never talked about it, just threw himself into work harder. I learned to do the same. Work became the thing that made sense when nothing else did."
"How long has your dad been gone?" I ask quietly, remembering what Deputy Morrison said at the scene of the fall.
"Three years. Heart attack on a job site. He was fifty-six." Micah's voice is steady but there's pain underneath. "So now it's just me against the world. Working the same jobs he worked, living in the same house he built, trying to figure out what the point of any of it is."
I nod, processing that. The loneliness in his words resonates with something in me. Different circumstances but the same feeling of being adrift, of going through motions without understanding the purpose.
"What about you?" Micah's turn to ask questions.
"I've always done music." The answer comes automatically. "It's been my thing since I was a kid. Any instrument, anything that made music fascinated me. Piano, guitar, bass, drums. Even weird stuff like the theremin and the accordion. If it could make sound, I wanted to learn it."
"And you settled on the drums?" Micah's tone is curious, not judgmental.
I sigh and stop walking, turning to face him. Our hands are still connected, his fingers warm between mine. The lake stretches out behind him, water glittering in the afternoon sun.
"No. That's what the band needed and I was so focused on that dream that I just..
. gave in? I'm not sure." The admission feels heavier than it should.
"I was playing guitar when Tom found me.
Had this whole solo artist thing I was working on.
But the band needed a drummer and Tom said it would be easier to market a group than a solo act.
Said I'd have better chances of success if I was flexible. "
Micah's expression shifts to something soft and understanding. He reaches up with his good hand to caress my face, his touch gentle against my jaw. "Well, I like the Kellan in front of me. Drummer or guitarist or whatever else. This version right here."
He leans in and kisses me, sweet and unhurried. Not the desperate intensity from last night or this morning, but something tender. His lips are soft against mine, tasting faintly of the sandwich we just ate and something uniquely him.
I kiss him back, my free hand coming up to cup the back of his neck. The cast on his arm bumps awkwardly between us but we adjust, finding a position that works. The kiss deepens slightly before we pull away, both breathing a little harder.
"You're really okay with all of this?" I search his face, needing to know. "The attention, the fake relationship that might be becoming real, all of this?"
Micah considers the question seriously. "It's overwhelming. Not going to lie about that. The grocery store thing freaked me out and I'm still processing it. But I'm liking being here with you, right now. That counts for something, right?"
"Yeah." A grin spreads across my face, genuine and unguarded. "That counts for a lot."
This is what I want. This feeling, this connection, this simplicity. Not the staged restaurant dates Tom will demand, not the carefully curated social media posts. Just this. Just us, existing together in a space where the outside world can't reach.
And I'm already dreading the moment it ends.