16. Micah
SIXTEEN
MICAH
I don’t move.
Water keeps hammering down, soaking my skin, sliding through my hair, and I just stand there, fists clenched, breathing hard like I’ve just gone head-to-head in overtime.
Colton’s across from me.
Dripping. Silent. Eyes locked on anything but mine. And that look, the one on his face? I fucking hate it.
Guilt.
Shame.
As if kissing me was a crime scene, and he’s standing over the body holding the knife.
My throat burns. Because I know this look. I’ve seen it before. The first time he kissed me. My heart slams against my ribs. I hate him.
God, I hate how he makes me feel.
I storm out of the shower, water soaking my practice pads, leaving wet footprints across the tile. I don’t care.
I don’t care that I'm dripping water with every step or that I can barely breathe. I grab a dry towel and wipe at my face, attempting to get rid of the heat crawling under my skin.
He follows.
Of course, he fucking follows.
“Micah—”
“Don’t,” I snap, spinning on him. “Don’t start.”
He stops short, chest heaving. “It wasn’t?—”
“Don’t say it wasn’t a mistake,” I bite. “And don’t say it was either. You don’t get to fucking play both sides this time.”
His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Bullshit.” I step in, wet and furious, and vibrating with something I don’t want to name. “You don’t even know why you kissed me, do you? You were angry, or confused, or hard-up, and I was just there. Again .”
He flinches.
Good.
“Do you ever think before you touch me, Taylor? Or do you just react and let me deal with the fallout?”
“I didn’t mean?—”
“You never mean it. That’s the problem.” My voice cracks. I fucking hate that it cracks. “You always kiss me like you'll fucking die if you don't. And then you look at me as if I’m the problem.”
His eyes flash, but he doesn’t deny it.
And that makes it worse.
Because I don’t want his excuses. I want him to own it. For once in his perfect, golden-boy life, I want him to fucking own it.
I push the wet clothes off my legs, standing completely naked in front of him, before shoving my legs into my sweats. I grab my duffel and toss it over one should er, my sweats sticking to my skin. Feet still bare, and I walk away.
He says my name once more. Just “Micah,” soft and broken.
But I’m already gone. Because I won’t do this again. I won’t be the secret. I won’t be the mistake.
Not again.
Not for him.
My room’s quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of stillness that makes everything louder inside my head.
I showered after I stormed back into my dorm. Brushed my teeth so hard that I'm sure the enamel was scrubbed off, too. I had to get the taste of him out of my mouth.
Afterwards, I toweled off, pulled on sweats, and sat on the edge of my bed, hoping that something might start to make sense if I don’t move.
It hasn’t.
I bailed on Luke for lunch. Haven’t answered any group texts. Barely blinked when Luke sent a meme about Coach looking like an overcooked potato. All I’ve done is sit here, phone in my hand, screen locked, thumb tapping against the edge as if I’m trying to crack it open by force.
I finally unlock it.
The messages from GoldenSpiral23 are still open.
Nothing new. No unread bubble.
Just the thread. Still glowing with everything he said last night. Every word that made me feel safe. Wanted. Seen .
I swallow hard.
Because I don’t feel safe now. I feel broken. And I hate that I’m thinking about Colton.
I hate that I’m thinking about him and this at the same time.
I hate that they feel like opposite ends of the same ache.
My fingers hover. Then move.
Me: You ever wish someone else could carry the hurt for a minute? Just… hold it long enough for you to breathe?
I hit send.
Then I set the phone down beside me, press the heels of my hands to my eyes, and exhale through clenched teeth.
Colton just brought everything from the past right here to the present, and I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do with it.
His mouth was on mine, his body against mine, and for a second, it felt real.
And then he looked at me with the mistake of it shining in his eyes.
Again.
Like I’m the thing he can’t want in the daylight. Like nothing’s changed.
And now I’m here, asking a stranger to hold the part of me he keeps dropping.
How fucked up is that?
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my chest tight in that awful, familiar way. The part that comes after being wanted…right before being discarded.
Maybe it’s stupid.
Maybe it’s reckless .
But GoldenSpiral23 doesn’t make me feel like I’m a mistake. Not even when I hand him the worst parts of me.
And right now?
That’s the only thing keeping me from breaking.
I type out a quick message to him. Something light.
Me: Did you know that roller coasters were invented to distract us from sin?
There’s a knock on my door.
Two short, one long—Luke’s signature, that, and he's the only one that really comes by.
I consider ignoring it.
Then it comes again.
“Micah,” he calls through the door, voice muffled but annoyingly chipper. “Open up. I know you’re in there sulking in those sad gray sweatpants like it’s a lifestyle. But we're not doing that tonight.”
I groan and drag myself off the bed, opening the door just enough to scowl at him.
Luke’s already dressed to cause trouble. Black boots, mesh shirt under a leather jacket, eyeliner so sharp it could be a weapon. He looks like sin personified with a student ID.
“Don’t give me that look,” he says, pushing past me, taking up space effortlessly. “I’m not here for emotional processing. I’m here to save your ass from whatever sad playlist you’ve been trauma-looping to all afternoon.”
I shut the door behind him. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I sorta figured when you ignored my text.” He turns, hands on his hips. “Now go put on something slutty and emotionally unavailable. We’re going to Riot.”
“Pass.”
“Not optional. ”
“Luke—”
He holds up a finger. “No. I let you spiral this morning for who knows what reason. I let you ghost the team group chat, skip grabbing lunch with me, and not respond to the absolute fire meme I sent. This is an intervention.”
I drop onto the edge of the bed. “You really think club lights and overpriced vodka are going to fix my mental state?”
He smirks. “No. But they’ll make you forget long enough to have fun. Or at least get felt up by a med student with commitment issues. And those guys are good with their hands.” He winks.
I snort, and then I glance at my phone. The message to Golden is still unanswered.
Something in my chest twists.
Luke sees it. His voice softens, not much, but enough. “Come on, Blackman. I’m not saying you have to be okay. Just don’t be alone tonight.”
I hesitate. And then I nod.
Because even if I can’t forget what Colton did today. I can pretend for a little while.
“Give me ten,” I say, standing.
“Make it five,” Luke says, grinning. “Slutty and sad is in this season.”
The second we step inside, the bass hits like a heartbeat—deep, pulsing, alive.
Riot is already packed. Lights strobe across damp skin and cheap glitter. The air smells like sweat, vodka, and variou s body sprays, all of it together making my nose wrinkle.
Luke leads the way, cutting through the crowd as though he owns the place. He probably does, in a spiritual sense.
I follow, the thrum of the music sinking into my bones, vibrating against everything that hurts.
He drags me straight to the bar and waves two fingers at the bartender. “Two Vodka Revivals. Extra lime. Make ’em aggressive.”
“Is there a non-aggressive version of vodka here?” I mutter.
“Not in this economy,” Luke says, handing me a glass and already swaying to the beat. “Now drink. Look hot. Don’t think.”
I down half of mine in one go.
Don’t think.
Right.
Too late.
The lights flash blue and pink and green. I blink and see Colton in all of them. Hands on me. Mouth on mine. That second under the shower when everything had fallen into place.
And then the look.
The shame.
I tip the rest of my drink back and set the glass on the bar a little too hard.
“Atta boy,” Luke says, grabbing my wrist and pulling me into the crush of bodies. “Now move like you’re not actively dying inside.”
He’s ridiculous. And annoyingly good at this.
I let him guide me into the rhythm, hips catching the beat, pulse syncing with the crowd. The alcohol helps. So does the neon haze. Everything’s softer here. Easier to fake.
Someone presses in behind me—tall, built, the kind of smile that says he came here to forget something too.
He doesn’t ask. Just moves with me.
Hands on my hips. Breath warm against my ear.
“Come here often?” he murmurs directly into my ear.
I smirk, just enough to play along. “Only when I’m making questionable decisions.”
“That makes two of us,” he says, mouth grazing the edge of my jaw. “You got a name?”
“Do you?”
He laughs—low, rough, amused. “Fair.”
His grip tightens slightly at my waist. We move in sync, a little too close, a little too easy. It should be hot. Should be enough.
It’s not.
I let his hand skim higher. Let his lips brush my skin. He’s attractive. Confident. Probably thinks he’s helping me forget someone.
“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, mouth hot against my neck.
The old me might’ve said yes.
The version of me that didn’t remember what Colton Taylor tastes like. Instead, I step away. Shake my head once.
“Not tonight.”
He doesn’t argue. Just nods and disappears into the crowd, taking the rejection easily.
Luke slides up a second later, breathless and sweaty from dancing. “You good?”
“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m here.”
Luke slings an arm around my shoulders. “Then let’s dance ‘til your trauma forgets how to spell his name. We can regret it at practice tomorrow morning.”
I let him pull me in again. I keep moving. Keep faking.
Keep pretending this city’s lights are bright enough to burn Colton out of my head.
But even in this crowd, even in this haze, I still feel the phantom of our kiss.
And I hate that part of me wants him to do it again.