Chapter 33 #2
The drive to the viewing site was short, winding up through the property on a dirt road I hadn't known existed.
Micah pointed out landmarks as we passed, the half-renovated barn, the old greenhouse Oliver was apparently planning to restore, the field where Garrett had planted cover crops to rehabilitate the soil.
He spoke about the property with quiet pride, like he was showing me something precious.
Maybe he was.
"Here we are," he said finally, pulling into a small clearing at the top of a gentle rise. The sky opened up above us, vast and darkening, the first stars just beginning to appear in the deepening blue.
I climbed out of the truck and just stood there for a moment, breathing in the cool night air. It smelled like pine and grass and something clean and wild, the scent of wide-open spaces and infinite possibility.
"I checked the site this morning," Micah said, coming around to stand beside me.
"No rocks or roots to trip over, and I brought extra padding for the blankets.
I wanted to make sure you'd be comfortable.
" The admission made my heart squeeze. He'd checked the site.
He'd thought about my comfort, my safety, hours before I'd even started getting ready. This wasn't casual for him either.
"Thank you," I said softly. "For all of this. For thinking of everything."
"I tend to overthink," he admitted, a note of self-deprecation creeping into his voice. "The others tease me about it. I made a detailed viewing guide and prepared a list of constellations and Levi called me Professor Romance."
I laughed, a real laugh, surprised out of me by the mental image of serious, analytical Micah being teased by his pack. "Professor Romance?"
"It's not entirely inaccurate." He was smiling too, that rare full smile that transformed his face. "I did make a list. And a viewing guide. I brought hot chocolate because the temperature's supposed to drop into the fifties after midnight."
"I think that's sweet." The words slipped out before I could second-guess them. "That you planned so carefully. That you wanted tonight to be good."
Something shifted in his expression, surprise, maybe, or gratitude. "I want you to see what I see when I look at the sky. The wonder of it. The perspective."
"Then show me." I told him, voice soft as I smiled at him.
He set up with quiet efficiency, spreading blankets over the soft grass, arranging pillows for our heads, setting out the thermos of hot chocolate and two mugs.
I tried to help, but he had a system, a particular way he wanted things arranged, and eventually I just stood back and watched him work.
There was something calming about watching Micah do anything.
He moved with purpose, every action deliberate and considered.
No wasted motion, no uncertainty. He knew exactly what he was doing and why, and there was a steadiness to him that made me feel anchored just by proximity.
"Ready?" he asked when everything was arranged to his satisfaction.I nodded and lowered myself onto the blanket, lying back against the pillows.
The ground was soft beneath me, cushioned by the extra padding he'd mentioned, and when I looked up, the sky stretched endlessly above me, a canvas of deepening purple scattered with the first bright points of starlight.
Micah settled beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him but not quite touching. The scent of him drifted over, something clean and masculine, like cedar and winter air.
"The meteor shower won't peak until later," he said, his voice low and close in the darkness. "But we should start seeing some activity in about an hour. In the meantime, I can show you some constellations. If you want."
"I want." I told him looking at him from under my lashes in embarrassment on how quickly I responded to that.
He shifted slightly, raising one hand to point toward the sky.
"There, do you see that bright star, slightly reddish?
That's Arcturus. It's the fourth brightest star in the night sky and one of the closest to our solar system.
If you follow the arc of the Big Dipper's handle, it leads you right to it.
Arc to Arcturus—that's how I learned to find it as a kid. "
I followed his pointing finger, squinting at the scattered lights above. "I think I see it. The reddish one?"
"That's it. Now, from Arcturus, if you continue in the same direction, you'll come to Spica—that bright bluish star there. Speed on to Spica. Those two phrases, arc to Arcturus, speed on to Spica, were how my father taught me to navigate the spring sky."
"Your father taught you astronomy?" I inquired, curious how he knew all of this.
A pause. "He did. Before he passed. It was one of the few things we did together that didn't involve arguing about my future or his expectations. We could just... look up. Be quiet together. It was peaceful."
The vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache. Micah didn't share things like this easily, I knew that instinctively, the same way I knew that his precision and analysis were armor as much as personality. He was trusting me with something tender.
"I'm sorry," I said softly. "About your father."
"It was a long time ago." His voice was carefully neutral. "I still think of him when I look at the stars. I think he'd be glad that I'm sharing them with someone."
I reached out without thinking, my fingers finding his in the darkness.
His hand was warm and solid, and he didn't hesitate, just curled his fingers around mine, a gentle squeeze that said more than words.
We lay there in comfortable silence, hands linked, watching the sky deepen into true darkness.
More stars emerged, hundreds and then thousands, until the sky was awash with light.
The Milky Way became visible, a pale ribbon stretching across the heavens, and I found myself breathless at the sheer scope of it.
"It's incredible," I whispered. "I've never seen this many stars. Not even out at my cabin."
"Light pollution, probably. Even a small amount can dim the sky significantly. But up here, we're far enough from town that the seeing is excellent." He paused. "That's an astronomy term. 'Seeing.' It refers to the clarity of the atmosphere, how steady and clear the images appear."
"Professor Romance," I teased gently, and felt him laugh beside me—a low rumble that I felt as much as heard.
"Guilty as charged." He laughed and I felt the full tension leave me. The first meteor streaked across the sky without warning, a bright slash of light that vanished almost before I could register it. I gasped, gripping Micah's hand tighter.
"Did you see that?" I breathed, my eyes looking at the sky in awe.
"I did." I could hear the smile in his voice. "That was a Perseid. They're debris from comet Swift-Tuttle, burning up in our atmosphere. Each one is traveling at about one-hundred thirty-three thousand miles miles per hour when it hits the air."
"That's incredible." I stared at the sky, waiting for another. "They're just... gone so fast. Blink and you'd miss it."
"That's part of what makes them special, I think. The brevity. You can't capture them or hold onto them—you just have to be present for the moment they exist." Something about the words resonated, settling into a place I hadn't known was empty. Present for the moment they exist.
Another meteor blazed across the sky, longer this time, leaving a faint trail in its wake.
"Make a wish," Micah said, and there was something almost playful in his tone.
"I don't believe in wishes." I told him honestly. I stopped believing in those when I was in foster care.
"Neither do I. But I make them anyway. Hope doesn't require belief, I've learned.
Just willingness." He told him, and I paused before I closed my eyes and wished.
For what, I wasn't entirely sure. Maybe for more nights like this.
Maybe for the courage to keep showing up.
Maybe just for this feeling—this warmth in my chest, this sense of connection, this fragile, terrifying hope, to last a little longer.
When I opened my eyes, Micah was looking at me instead of the sky. In the starlight, his features were softened, almost gentle, and there was something in his expression that made my breath catch.
"Can I tell you something?" he asked quietly.
"Anything." I told him honestly.
"I was nervous about tonight. More nervous than I've been about anything in a long time.
" He paused, as if choosing his words carefully.
"I'm not good at this. At dating, at romance, at making someone feel special in the traditional ways.
I know I'm analytical and precise and I make viewing guides instead of grand gestures.
But when I'm with you, I don't want to be anyone other than who I am. And I hope that's enough."
The honesty of it cracked something open in me. Here was this man—this intelligent, capable, quietly intense man, admitting his fears, his insecurities, his hope that simply being himself would be enough.
"It's more than enough," I whispered, and meant it with every fiber of my being.
"Micah, I spent five years convincing myself I didn't need anyone, didn't want anyone.
And then you showed up on my porch and told me the truth when everyone else was just trying to manage me.
You saw me…really saw me, and you didn't run.
That matters more than grand gestures ever could. "
His hand tightened around mine. "Daphne..."
"I'm scared too," I continued, the words tumbling out now that I'd started.
"All the time. Scared of getting hurt, scared of disappointing you, scared of ruining this before it even really starts.
But being here with you, right now, looking at these stars.
.. I'm not scared of this moment. I'm just grateful for it. "