36. Micah
THIRTY-SIX
MICAH
The streets are dead at two in the morning. Just me, my headlights, and Knox in the passenger seat, silent, watching the night roll past like he’s reading it.
“Pull up behind the truck,” he says as I approach Sage’s building.
“I was thinking of driving to the ocean and parking on the shoreline.”
He grunts. “Smartass.”
My hands still smell like citrus and alcohol. Eight hours behind the bar, and the smell gets into your skin, your hair, the creases of your knuckles.
I pull in tight to the curb, lights off. Knox opens the door before we’re fully stopped, out and striding before the tires stop rolling. I kill the engine, pocket the keys, and follow.
“You good?” I ask.
“Mm.”
He glances up at her windows, a look of longing passing over his features.
“Light’s still on,” I say. “Why don’t you go up? Check on her.”
He shakes his head. “I’m beat. Thanks for the ride.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
With one last glance at the building, he walks to his truck, fobs it open, and gets in. The engine turns over once. Headlights snap on. He pulls away into the dark.
And that’s when I see Eli’s car.
It’s parked three spaces ahead of my usual spot, angled slightly toward the building like he backed in for a quick exit. The engine’s off. No lights. I’d almost miss it if I didn’t know every car on this street by make, model, and plate number.
I shove my hands in my pockets and walk over. The night is cool, smelling of salt and wet asphalt, and the only sounds are the gentle roar of the sea and a distant dog barking. I stop next to the driver’s side and look through the window.
He’s asleep.
Head tipped back against the headrest, mouth slightly open, arms folded tight over his chest. He looks younger when he sleeps—the tension gone from his jaw, the permanent crease between his brows smoothed out. Like the guy he probably was before all of this.
I knock on the glass. Hard.
He jolts awake so hard he nearly cracks his head on the roof. His hand shoots to his hip before his eyes focus and he sees me through the window. The panic drains, replaced by weariness.
I try not to laugh.
He winds the window down. “Micah.”
“Eli.”
His eyes flick to the building, then back to me. “I was just—”
“Sitting in your car at two in the morning outside her apartment when you aren’t even on the schedule right now? Yeah. I can see that.” I lean my forearm on the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Holden didn’t stay. So I’m making sure Milo didn’t set the place on fire.”
I look at him. He looks at me. We both know that’s bullshit, but I give him the dignity of the lie before I take it away.
“Get your ass out of the car and come upstairs with me.”
His jaw tightens. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t feel like walking in on her and Milo in bed together.”
“You think they are?”
“Fucked if I know.”
I grin. “Well, let’s go see.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. I probably have. But the joke cracks the tension just enough to let something else in.
“Come on.” I step back from the car. “Stop pretending and come upstairs. If nothing else, you can check for fire damage and leave. Five minutes. Show your face. It’ll mean a lot to her.”
He sits there. I can see him fighting the want versus the fear.
“Five minutes,” he says finally.
He gets out and locks the car, and I can’t help but notice he’s wearing the jacket he was acting so noble over after the meeting. It gives me a little thrill, seeing how transparent he really is and knowing he’d never admit it.
I head across the street and he follows, trailing me into the building without another word. His footsteps are heavy on the steps behind me. We get to Sage’s apartment and I test the handle. The door’s unlocked so I push through it quietly.
The apartment is dim. A single lamp lights the kitchen, the TV glowing in the living room, volume so low it’s just a murmur. The air smells like garlic and dish soap.
Milo looks up when we walk in and his eyes go wide.
“Well, well,” he whispers, keeping his voice low. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, what Micah dragged in?”
“Shut up,” Eli says, but there’s no heat in it. His eyes are locked on Sage.
She’s curled on her side, her head on Milo’s lap, a throw blanket pulled up to her chin. One hand’s tucked under her cheek, her hair fanned across his legs. The TV is cycling through the credits of something.
“Fellowship of the Ring,” Milo says, following my gaze. “Extended edition. She made it as far as Lothlórien.” He shakes his head, mock-solemn. “Didn’t even get to Boromir’s noble death. Devastating, really. We’ll have to start it again.”
“You watched all three?”
“Just the first. We were planning to marathon them, but as you can see, my apprentice has limits.” Milo pauses.
“She’d never seen them. I know. I had the same reaction.
It’s practically a crime. But she’s been educated now.
Mostly.” He runs his fingers through her hair.
“I was trying to figure out how to carry her to bed without waking her, but since we now have two gentlemen present . . .” He looks at me, then Eli.
Eli doesn’t move. Just stands there, staring at her like she’s something fragile and impossible, something he wants to touch but is afraid will shatter.
“She won’t bite,” Milo whispers. “Well. She might. But you’d like it.” His eyes shift to me. “Or maybe it’s Micah who likes that.”
I ignore him.
“Eli.” I keep my voice soft. “Just take her to bed. She’ll sleep better there.”
He hesitates. But then he crosses the room and crouches beside her.
He slides one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders, and lifts her in one smooth motion.
She barely stirs. Just makes a small sound in her throat and turns her face into his chest, her fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket. The jacket.
“Eli.”
She says it in her sleep, but his whole body goes still. Just for a second. Like the contact has short-circuited something inside him.
For a long beat, he stands there, holding her like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. Then he carries her down the hallway.
Milo and I look at each other.
“We absolutely cannot,” I whisper.
“We absolutely have to,” Milo whispers back.
He’s already moving. I follow because what am I going to do, not follow.
We creep down the hallway like idiots, stopping shy of her bedroom doorway so we can peer around the frame without being seen.
Eli has his back to us. He’s laying her down on the bed with a tenderness that makes my chest hurt to watch, pulling the covers up, tucking them around her shoulders. Brushing the hair back from her face.
Then he straightens. Hesitates. Shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it carefully over the back of her chair.
Milo elbows me hard enough to bruise.
Eli stands there for another moment, looking at her. Looking at the jacket.
“Now,” Milo hisses.
We bolt back down the hall on the balls of our feet and head for the kitchen. Milo dives for the sponge and starts wiping a surface that’s already clean. I study the spice rack like it contains the secrets of the universe. My pulse is going like I just ran a sprint.
“She’s in bed,” Eli says.
“Great.” Milo doesn’t look up. “Thanks for that.”
“Yeah.” I nod at the counter. “Good work.”
Eli glances between us. He knows we were watching. Of course he does, but nobody says anything.
“I should go,” Eli says eventually.
“Sit,” I say.
He looks at me. I nod at one of the kitchen chairs.
“I’m not arguing with you, Eli. I’m tired. You’re tired. Sit down and let’s actually talk about what happened after the meeting this morning.”
Eli sits. Reluctantly. His jaw works.
“What about it?” he says.
“I don’t want to keep fighting with you.” I say it gently. No edge. Just naming it. “And I don’t want to keep repeating our same old patterns either.”
Eli glares at me—then at the table, then at nothing. “I’m not repeating anything. You two just . . . keep forcing it.”
He means the talking, the way we tug at every feeling he shoves in a jar and hides in his closet. I know the trick. It’s a classic. Shame is a more effective lock than anything that comes with a key. But tonight, I don’t want to lock him down. If I’m honest, I want to see if he’ll try to breathe.
I glance at Milo, who’s polishing a water glass with the intensity of a man tasked with shining the Hope Diamond. He glances at me and shrugs, as if to say, Ball’s in your court. So I take it.
“I know what we are, Eli,” I say quietly. “And what we aren’t. But the pretending’s getting old—acting like you don’t care when we all know you care too much.”
The silence is long.
Eli looks at the floor. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Me. You. Her. Whether I care—how much. The fact is, I shouldn’t be here.” He stands, suddenly restless. The chair scrapes. “I came back to make sure you and Milo had the place secured. That’s all.”
“Eli.”
“It’s how I care. Keeping people safe.”
“Bullshit, Eli.”
Milo, who’s held his peace beautifully for thirty whole seconds, can apparently hold it no longer. He sets the glass down carefully.
“Why are you always the last to take what you need, Eli?” His voice is low, but the joking is gone.
“You act like the only way to do the right thing is to be miserable.” Milo cocks his head, eyes unblinking.
“Nobody gets bonus points for suffering. It’s okay to want something. To want someone. You’re allowed.”
Eli’s jaw works. “What we’re doing is irresponsible.
All of it. We’re supposed to be protecting her, not—” He gestures at the apartment, at the dishes, at the hallway where she’s sleeping.
“Playing house. She went through something horrific, and instead of giving her space to process it, we’re taking turns showing up at her door with dinner and—”
“And what?” I cut in. “Kindness? Connection? Showing her we’re the kind of people who actually understand her and give a shit?”
“We don’t know her well enough for this.”