Page 62 of What We Burn

I should probably feel something other than what I feel.

What I feel is: good.

Glad.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

Micah’s eyes come back to me, searching. “Okay?”

“Okay.” I lift his hand and press my lips to the ruined knuckles, one by one. “I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry he’s hurt.”

He exhales, long and slow, but then his eyes catch on the back of the door, where Eli’s jacket—the one that’s been traded back and forth between us since the night everything started—hangs on a hook.

His demeanor shifts and he looks at the chair by the window, where the gray hoodie is folded. The one I took while Eli was using the bathroom. The one I sleep in when the nightmares get bad and I need to smell something that my brain registers as comfort.

For some reason, Eli’s always been that for me.

“Why do you still have those?”

The question is quiet. Not accusatory. But there’s a bite underneath it I haven’t heard from Micah before—a blade inside the velvet.

“They’re just clothes.”

“They’re not just clothes, Sage. That jacket has been your comfort object since the beach. And his hoodie—you took it to feel close to him. You wear it every night.”

“Not every night.”

“Most nights.”

Only until it stops smelling like him.

“Why is he still here?” Micah asks. His hand has tensed in mine. “In this house? Making you coffee every morning like some kind of⁠—”

“Because he saved my life.”

“He also broke it.”

His words settle somewhere in my ribs.

“You’re upset with him.”

“Upset?” Micah sits up. The sheet falls to his waist. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, and when he turns to face me, there’s nothing self-conscious about his nakedness. “Sage. I’m fucking furious.”

Micah holds the line when Knox wants to destroy. Micah is the one who says let’s think about this.

Right now, he’s furious.

“He hurt you, Sage. With his words, his actions. He put you in danger and you almost lost your life.”

“Micah,” I whisper when he starts pacing the room, wanting him to come back to bed, to sit and let me offer him comfort the way he’s offered it to me.

“Don’t, baby girl. Don’t sit there and tell me it’s okay because he saved you. You should never have been in that position in the first place. I was right there with you. And I stepped away because of him. Because he was so fucking selfish that he thought he could make decisions for the group. For you!” He lets out an agitated grunt, dragging his fingers through his hair while he continues to pace.

“He does this thing,” he continues. “Makes his guilt the biggest thing in the room. His darkness. His monster. Like he’s the only one carrying weight.” The words come out bitter. “And I fall for it. Every time. I step back so he can have the space he swears he needs.” His jaw tightens. “Then I go right back to him when he wants closeness again. I’ve been doing that for years, Sage.”

He stops at the window, pressing his palms flat against the frame.

“But that night . . . It was the first time it cost something I couldn’t get back.” His laugh is short and ugly. “I’ve been choosing his sadness over everything. My own time. My own wants. You. And I told myself the whole time that it was kindness. That he needed me.”