9. Sisterhood of Survivors #3
I’m definitely not thinking about that almost-kiss.
Definitely not imagining what might have happened if he’d actually kissed me.
And definitely not hoping for a similar situation again tonight.
The cabin’s warmth embraces us, along with Powder’s enthusiastic greeting.
Micah secures the door, checking locks with meticulous care before finally relaxing. “I’m glad tonight was helpful, but that meeting was a risk.”
“A calculated one,” I remind him, shedding my coat. “And worth it. I can’t hide forever, Micah.”
He runs a hand through his gray-streaked hair, frustration evident in the gesture. “No. You can’t. But as long as Sandra’s making noise, I’ll worry.”
I step closer, close enough to catch the spicy notes of his cologne. “I know. And I trust your judgment. But tonight reminded me that I’m not alone in this. Other women have survived worse, have rebuilt their lives. I can too.”
Something shifts in his dark eyes—pride maybe, or admiration. “You’re stronger than you know, Naomi.”
Warmth floods through me, settling low in my belly. Micah’s words of approval always affect me this way, triggering responses I try desperately to ignore. I step back before I do something foolish like close the remaining distance between us.
“I should get ready for bed,” I say. “It’s been an emotional evening.”
Micah nods, already moving to build us a fire. “Get some rest. I’ll keep watch in my chair tonight.”
I pause halfway to the bathroom, gathering courage. “You could … I mean, sleep in the bed again. If you want. I’m not upset about before.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with possibility.
Last time he slept in the bed with me, we’d ended up tangled together, his solid warmth chasing away my nightmares.
He’s refused the bed ever since. This almost-kiss still hangs unspoken between us, a moment of weakness neither of us has acknowledged before now.
“Naomi.” His voice carries warning and longing in equal measure.
“Just sleep,” I clarify quickly, though we both know it’s more complicated than that. “You need real rest too.”
He studies me for a long moment, internal conflict visible in the set of his jaw. Finally, he nods once, sharp and decisive. “Just sleep.”
I hurry through my bedtime routine, heart racing with anticipation and nerves. When I emerge from the bathroom in sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, Micah has changed into his pajama pants and a fitted black shirt that does nothing to hide his muscular frame.
We settle into our respective sides of the bed, careful to maintain distance. But in the darkness, with only the sound of our breathing and Powder’s contented purring, that space feels both monumental and inadequate.
Sleep proves elusive as my mind races with the day’s events. It all swirls together into a complex tapestry of hope and fear, possibility and danger.
A particularly loud purr from Powder breaks the silence. “Your cat is ridiculous,” I whisper, smiling as she kneads the blanket between us.
Micah’s quiet laugh rumbles through the darkness and it sends a wave of heat straight to my core. I like the sound of his laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
I roll onto my side, facing his shadowy profile. “Tell me something true,” I say impulsively, needing to hear his soothing voice to get through this sleepless night.
He’s quiet so long I think he won’t answer. “I worry that I’m not strong enough to keep you safe.”
The admission catches me off guard. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Not all strength is physical.” His voice holds decades of regret. “I couldn’t protect Lucas from Sandra’s influence. Couldn’t stop him from becoming what he became. If I fail you too—”
“You won’t,” I interrupt. “You’ve already saved me in ways you don’t even realize.”
He turns his head, dark eyes finding mine in the dim light from the fireplace. “Tell me something true,” he echoes.
My heart pounds as I consider various truths—how safe I feel in his presence, how his praise makes me ache in places long neglected, how that almost-kiss haunts me. Instead, I whisper, “I’m not sorry. About Lucas. Does that make me a monster?”
Micah’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. “No. It makes you a survivor.”
The simple validation unleashes something inside me—relief, gratitude, and other emotions I’m not ready to name. Tears slip down my cheeks as years of guilt and shame begin to loosen their hold.
“Come here,” Micah murmurs, tugging gently on our joined hands.
I slide across the space between us until I’m tucked against his side, my head resting on his chest. His heartbeat sounds steady beneath my ear, his arm curved protectively around my shoulders.
The position mirrors how we woke the last time, but now there’s no pretense of accident or sleep.
We’ve chosen this closeness, this comfort.
“Sleep,” he says softly, his deep voice rumbling through his chest. “I’ve got you.”
As consciousness fades, Micah presses a kiss to my forehead. It’s so light I might have imagined it. But the gesture, real or dreamed, follows me into sleep, a promise of protection and something more dangerous, something that feels terrifying, yet I can’t help but want it.