Chapter 9 Ellie
Ellie
The roads are half-frozen and glinting like silver ribbons through the pines. The truck hums beneath us, heat blasting through the vents, but I still keep my hands curled in my lap for warmth—not from the cold outside, but from the tension radiating off the man beside me.
Micah drives like he does everything else—silent, alert, a hand always near the gearshift and eyes scanning the tree line like the forest might spit out a monster at any second.
I don’t interrupt the silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. Not with him.
But after a few miles, the cabin in the rearview and the edges of town still a shadow ahead, I glance at him and ask, “So, how long’s it been since you came into town?”
His mouth tightens just slightly. “Few months.”
I raise an eyebrow. “A few months? To, like… get groceries?”
He shrugs. “Hale runs a private resupply. I get what I need.”
I shake my head, amused. “So you’re just up there… in the mountains… hiding out like a hot survivalist monk.”
He shoots me a look. “I don’t do robes.”
“You’d look good in one.”
He clears his throat, eyes straight ahead. “I don’t get along with people.”
That sobers me a little. I watch him, really watch him. The hard set of his jaw, the small crease between his brows, the way his grip on the wheel tightens like I’m walking him toward a conversation he doesn’t want to have.
“Why not?” I ask gently.
He exhales slowly. “Because people lie. Because they take. Because most of them don’t want the truth. They want comfort. And I don’t have that to give.”
I blink, quiet for a moment, before I whisper, “You give me comfort.”
That makes his jaw tic again, but he doesn’t answer.
A few more pine trees blur past before he adds, “I’ve seen things, Ellie.”
I turn to face him fully.
He keeps his eyes on the road. “In the war. In places we weren’t even supposed to be.
I’ve seen things no man should ever have to see.
I’ve held friends while they bled out. Killed men before I was old enough to rent a car back home.
I’ve buried civilians because the chain of command got greedy.
I’ve walked away from missions with a heartbeat and nothing else while my friends… my brothers… didn’t. And somehow…”
He grips the steering wheel tighter. “Somehow the world expects you to come home and smile. Buy a lawnmower. Shake hands with your neighbor like the noise in your head isn’t still screaming.”
My throat goes tight.
I reach out and place my hand over his—not squeezing, just… grounding.
He glances down at it but doesn’t pull away.
“I like being alone,” he says quietly. “It’s easier.”
“But it’s not better.”
He doesn’t answer.
So I do what I do best—I push. Carefully.
“That’s no way to live, Micah,” I say. “People need people. Not just to survive. But to stay human. Connection is what reminds us we’re still alive. That there’s more than the worst thing we’ve ever done. Or seen.”
His throat moves, but he stays quiet.
So I lean in a little closer and say, “You can be strong and still need someone.”
We ride the rest of the way in silence, but this time, it feels different. He doesn’t shake me off. Doesn’t hide behind the coldness.
Micah’s not just listening.
He’s letting himself feel it.
Timber Creek unfurls like a snow globe—small streets dusted with flurries, brick buildings dressed in wreaths and white lights, a sleepy diner on the corner where I swear someone is always eating pie no matter the time of day.
We drive past the bakery, the hardware store, the community center. A few early risers wave at the truck, and I think I see Micah’s soul physically recoil inside his flannel.
“Wow,” I say. “You really don’t do people.”
He grunts.
We park in front of the youth center, a squat red-brick building with frost on the windows and a paper snowflake taped crookedly to the door. I step out and tuck my scarf tighter around my neck. Micah circles to my side, scanning the street like we’re on recon.
“You good?” he asks me.
I nod. “Yeah. This place feels like home.”
That answer doesn’t seem to ease him.
“Come on,” I say, taking his hand and tugging him toward the entrance. “You need to meet some of the people I care about. Might change your mind about the whole people are the worst thing.”
He raises a brow but doesn’t argue.
Inside, it’s warm and loud and chaotic. A teenager in a hoodie skates past on socks and almost crashes into a chair. Someone else is blasting holiday music from a Bluetooth speaker. The front desk is manned by Amber, my co-worker, who spots me and freezes mid-bite of a bagel.
“Ellie?!” she gasps, standing up so fast her chair rolls back.
I brace for it—and yep, here it comes. Full-body hug. She squeezes me like I’ve just returned from a mission trip in the and not a cozy cabin an hour away.
“We’ve been worried sick! You didn’t even answer my last text!”
“I know,” I say, gently pulling back. “I’m okay now. But… there’s been some stuff.”
Her eyes flick to Micah, who stands just behind me, clearly trying to blend into the shadows. It doesn’t work. He’s too tall, too broad, and way too dangerous-looking to be anything other than instantly suspicious.
“Amber, this is Micah.” I pause. “He’s… helping me stay safe.”
Amber’s brows fly up. “Oh. Oh.” She smiles wide, but not in a mocking way—more like thank God someone’s protecting my girl.
Micah nods once, gruff. “Ma’am.”
Amber snorts. “No one calls me ma’am, honey. This isn’t the DMV.”
I stifle a laugh. Micah almost cracks a smile.
We move through the center, and I introduce him to a few more staff members—Troy, who runs the after-school programs and insists Micah “could bench-press a minivan,” and Sasha, our therapist who gives Micah one of those long, clinical once-overs that makes even me sweat.
Then we head into the common room, where a handful of teens are sprawled across beanbags and couches, playing video games, drawing, or pretending not to notice us.
A girl with pink braids looks up. “Miss Ellie!” she says, then drops her sketchbook to race over and wrap me in a hug that knocks the air out of me.
“Hey, Jules,” I whisper into her hair. “Missed you.”
Micah watches it all like a man in a foreign land. He’s quiet, scanning, cataloguing. But I can see it—the way his posture softens. The way his eyes track the way the kids light up. The way he studies the sketchbook left on the couch like he’s seeing something real again. Something pure.
This place isn’t just chaos.
It’s hope.
And as Jules tugs me toward a corner of the room to show me her latest drawing, I glance back at Micah.
He’s standing there in the middle of it all, solid and still, like a mountain nobody’s quite noticed yet.
And for the first time,
I see it—the cracks in his walls.
Letting in the light.