Page 136 of What We Bury

When I’m finished, I pad through the hallway barefoot, wearing the oversized T-shirt and sweatpants I put on last night. The apartment is quiet, it’s barely past dawn. But I find Micah on the couch.

He’s asleep. One arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his stomach, a throw blanket tangled around his waist. His shirt has ridden up, exposing a strip of skin above his hip—tanned, lean muscle, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

I should not be staring.

I am absolutely staring.

He’s beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you. Quieter than the others—softer jaw, longer lashes, the kind of mouth that looks like it was designed specifically to say devastating things gently. His hair is a mess—dark auburn strands falling acrosshis forehead, sticking up at the back where he slept on it wrong. There’s a bruise on his forearm, fading yellow at the edges, shaped around a bite mark that’s still healing. I know exactly where he got it. Know where he got the other healing cut on his arm too.

Is it strange that I get a sick satisfaction knowing I put them there? That I may have marked his body forever?

I quietly make coffee. Two sets of keys are sitting on the counter by the toaster, labeled in Milo’s handwriting.Holden. Eli.Seems Milo’s been handing them out rather efficiently. Or, at least tried to. Eli’s is still here.

Of course it is.

He came here in the dark, tucked me in, left the jacket—and on the way out, refused the very thing that would prove he wanted to come back.

Taking two mugs from the cupboard, I pour the coffee and realize I have no idea how Micah takes it. Black? Milk? Sugar? I know he’s a bartender and probably has strong opinions about beverages, and the thought of getting it wrong makes me irrationally nervous.

I add a splash of milk and half a sugar, hedging my bets.

Then I carry both mugs to the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, knees almost touching the couch cushion, and just . . . look at him.

This man held me through a nightmare. Touched me like I was something precious and powerful at the same time. And when Eli walked in and the world tilted sideways, Micah went after him—fought for us—and came back with shaking hands and a kiss that tasted like an apology for something that wasn’t his fault. He’s held me most days since.

His eyes open.

Not the slow, bleary waking of someone surfacing from deep sleep. One second he’s out, the next those blue-gray eyes are onme, clear and warm, like he knew I was there the whole time and was just waiting for me to settle.

“Hey, baby girl.” His voice is morning-rough, low and scratchy. A slow smile spreads across his face. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good.” I hold out his mug. “I made you coffee. I didn’t know how you take it.”

He sits up, the blanket falling to his lap, and takes the mug from me. Our fingers brush. He takes a sip, and I watch his face for the verdict.

He winces—a micro-expression he tries to hide behind the rim of the mug.

“It’s good,” he says.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s—” He takes another sip. Swallows with visible effort. “It’s coffee. It has coffee properties. It’s hot, it’s liquid, caffeinated.”

“How do you actually take it?”

“Black. No sugar. But this is—” He holds up the mug like he’s making a toast. “This is great. You made it for me. That makes it the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“I’m a very sincere liar.” He grins, and his hair is sticking up on one side in a way that makes him look younger. Messy and rumpled and impossibly cute.

He sets the mug on the coffee table, still grimacing like the coffee personally betrayed him.

I set mine beside it and reach to smooth his hair down. It’s soft under my fingers, thick, and it doesn’t cooperate—springing back up the second I flatten it. I try again, running my fingers through it this time, and he goes still, like he’s holding his breath, letting me touch him, giving me all the time and space I need to decide what this is.

My fingers trail from his hair to his temple. Down the line of his jaw. The rough scratch of morning stubble against my fingertips. The corner of his mouth, where his smile has gone quiet.

“Sage . . .”