The vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache. Micah didn't share things like this easily, I knew that instinctively, the same way I knew that his precision and analysis were armor as much as personality. He was trusting me with something tender.
"I'm sorry," I said softly. "About your father."
"It was a long time ago." His voice was carefully neutral. "I still think of him when I look at the stars. I think he'd be glad that I'm sharing them with someone."
I reached out without thinking, my fingers finding his in the darkness. His hand was warm and solid, and he didn't hesitate, just curled his fingers around mine, a gentle squeeze that said more than words. We lay there in comfortable silence, hands linked, watching the sky deepen into true darkness. More stars emerged, hundreds and then thousands, until the sky wasawash with light. The Milky Way became visible, a pale ribbon stretching across the heavens, and I found myself breathless at the sheer scope of it.
"It's incredible," I whispered. "I've never seen this many stars. Not even out at my cabin."
"Light pollution, probably. Even a small amount can dim the sky significantly. But up here, we're far enough from town that the seeing is excellent." He paused. "That's an astronomy term. 'Seeing.' It refers to the clarity of the atmosphere, how steady and clear the images appear."
"Professor Romance," I teased gently, and felt him laugh beside me—a low rumble that I felt as much as heard.
"Guilty as charged." He laughed and I felt the full tension leave me. The first meteor streaked across the sky without warning, a bright slash of light that vanished almost before I could register it. I gasped, gripping Micah's hand tighter.
"Did you see that?" I breathed, my eyes looking at the sky in awe.
"I did." I could hear the smile in his voice. "That was a Perseid. They're debris from comet Swift-Tuttle, burning up in our atmosphere. Each one is traveling at about one-hundred thirty-three thousand miles miles per hour when it hits the air."
"That's incredible." I stared at the sky, waiting for another. "They're just... gone so fast. Blink and you'd miss it."
"That's part of what makes them special, I think. The brevity. You can't capture them or hold onto them—you just have to be present for the moment they exist." Something about the words resonated, settling into a place I hadn't known was empty. Present for the moment they exist.
Another meteor blazed across the sky, longer this time, leaving a faint trail in its wake.
"Make a wish," Micah said, and there was something almost playful in his tone.
"I don't believe in wishes." I told him honestly. I stopped believing in those when I was in foster care.
"Neither do I. But I make them anyway. Hope doesn't require belief, I've learned. Just willingness." He told him, and I paused before I closed my eyes and wished. For what, I wasn't entirely sure. Maybe for more nights like this. Maybe for the courage to keep showing up. Maybe just for this feeling—this warmth in my chest, this sense of connection, this fragile, terrifying hope, to last a little longer.
When I opened my eyes, Micah was looking at me instead of the sky. In the starlight, his features were softened, almost gentle, and there was something in his expression that made my breath catch.
"Can I tell you something?" he asked quietly.
"Anything." I told him honestly.
"I was nervous about tonight. More nervous than I've been about anything in a long time." He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "I'm not good at this. At dating, at romance, at making someone feel special in the traditional ways. I know I'm analytical and precise and I make viewing guides instead of grand gestures. But when I'm with you, I don't want to be anyone other than who I am. And I hope that's enough."
The honesty of it cracked something open in me. Here was this man—this intelligent, capable, quietly intense man, admitting his fears, his insecurities, his hope that simply being himself would be enough.
"It's more than enough," I whispered, and meant it with every fiber of my being. "Micah, I spent five years convincing myself I didn't need anyone, didn't want anyone. And then you showed up on my porch and told me the truth when everyone else was just trying to manage me. You saw me…really saw me, and you didn't run. That matters more than grand gestures ever could."
His hand tightened around mine. "Daphne..."
"I'm scared too," I continued, the words tumbling out now that I'd started. "All the time. Scared of getting hurt, scared of disappointing you, scared of ruining this before it even really starts. But being here with you, right now, looking at these stars... I'm not scared of this moment. I'm just grateful for it."
He rolled onto his side, facing me, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. His touch was gentle, tentative, giving me every opportunity to pull away. I didn't.
"I'm grateful too," he said softly. "For your courage. For your honesty. For giving us a chance even when every instinct told you to run."
"My instincts aren't always right." I hummed softly.
"Neither are mine. But I think..." He paused, that analytical mind working even now. "I think we can figure it out together. The right instincts, the wrong ones, all of it. That's what a pack is supposed to be. That's what partnership is supposed to be. Not perfection, just... commitment to the process."
Partnership. The word settled over me like a blanket, warm and weighted. Not just romance, not just courtship, but partnership. A joining of equals, each bringing their own strengths and weaknesses, their own fears and hopes.
"I want that," I whispered. "I want to figure it out. With you. With all of you."
