Page 413 of End Game

“I—”

Jesus.

“Maybe?”

Ronan waits.

“I don't fucking know. I mean—no. Yes. Maybe. That's not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“I don't want to decide anything.”

That comes out quieter.

There.

Fuck.

“I don't want to decide what job I take or what song I write or where I go next or whether cumin belongs with paprika. I don't want to figure out what happens in five minutes.”

Ronan's expression changes.

Barely.

But I see it.

“I just want somebody else to make my brain stop trying to be ahead of everything.”

Micah looks at Ronan.

Ronan tilts his head at Micah. “Whatever you're about to suggest.”

“You don't know what I'm about to suggest.”

“I generally do.”

Micah folds his arms. “I think you know how to give him what he's asking for.”

Ronan doesn't answer.

My pulse kicks harder.

Oh.

Micah continues, “And I think you might need it too.”

Ronan's jaw tightens. “What exactly do you think I need?”

“To stop being weird about wanting him.”

I blink.

Ronan stares at Micah.

Micah stares back.

Apparently I have become scenery.