Page 137 of End Game

Earlier this year, none of this existed. Not really.

Maybe pieces of it did, and I just didn’t know what they were going to become.

“I think I like this,” I admit.

Micah stills. Not dramatically. His hand simply stops and hovers over the dice tray. “Dungeons & Dragons?”

I look at him.

His mouth curves. “I know.” A moment later, he adds, “Me too.”

My attention drops back to the table as I straighten the edge of my notebook. “We’ve spent a lot of time talking about what all of this means.”

“We have.”

“And today Cami came home with a possible job opportunity, invited eleven people to dinner, and we spent three hours arguing about a stolen hat.”

Micah waits.

“I think that’s probably the point,” I add.

He studies me for a second. “Being boring?”

“We are not boring.”

“Domestic?”

I consider it. That isn’t quite right either. “Existing.”

Micah’s smile changes to something smaller and warmer. “Yeah, I think that’s the point too.”

For the first time really, he reaches for me.

Slowly.

Not cautiously. There’s a difference. Caution would mean he’s afraid of getting it wrong. This is deliberate. His hand enters my line of sight before it comes anywhere near me, giving me enough time to understand where he intends to touch.

His fingers hover beside my wrist.

He waits.

The pause lasts maybe half a second—it’s long enough.

I could move, but I don’t.

His fingers close around my wrist, warm and loose, and his thumb grazes once over the inside of it.

My pulse jumps beneath his hand.

There is no instinctive recoil. No static under my skin. No need to calculate how long I can tolerate the contact before it becomes too much.

There’s just warmth.

Micah watches my face anyway.

He knows how to touch me.

The realization lands somewhere behind my ribs with considerably more force than the touch itself.