Page 184 of Breathe Like Hell

I tried convincing myself that if I didn’t put my feelings about it into a sentence, I’d find it easier to continue on with him the way we were, but that wasn’t the truth.

None of this would ever be easy.

Micah leaned in to kiss me, and I leaned too, but our mouths only brushed for a second, barely enough to count as anything. We hesitated there in that fragile space, our pause stretching on too long to feel accidental, our lips not quite touching—but not pulling away either.

The silence between us deepened.

I grabbed his throat, bringing our lips together fully, and he forced his tongue into my mouth. Our harsh exhales tangled and knotted, teeth clashing, tongues warring…

Both of us tried to keep the intensity, tried to force it to work, but it wasn’t working. Space persisted between our mouths, reappearing every time one of us tried to close the gap, like wrong-way magnets. My breath kept hitching when I tried to even it out, and my fingers flexed pointlessly on Micah’s throat, as if I might overcome whatever anguish had taken hold of me. As if I could shove us back into our routine of hateful sex.

But I couldn’t even kiss him.

It hurt too badly and I just couldn’t fucking do it tonight.

Something about seeing Dakota so happy today was throwing me off.

All this did was remind me of everything I’d lost.

That image of his back was forever seared into my brain. The way every atom of my body, ever fiber of my soul, had been silently praying for him to turn around. To hesitate.

But he didn’t.

I couldn’t forget that.

Micah’s hand settled on my back, fingers pressing into one of my scars. We weren’t kissing at all anymore.

He wasn’t yanking me closer, wasn’t slamming me against a wall or pinning me down, wasn’t ramping up to any rough handling. Maybe he wanted to. Maybe he couldn’t do it tonight either. Maybe I wasn’t the only one smothered by the weight of our past.

My palm slid from his throat to his shoulder as he moved to grip the back of my neck, our foreheads tipping together and the darkness swallowing everything else.

It was silent save for the sound of our synced breathing. His shoulder was warm and solid under my hand, moving slowly with his inhales.

A lump was growing in my throat, a tightness in my chest, a sting behind my eyes.

The ache of wanting him consumed me.

The knowledge that we’d never be together again crushed me.

“Fuck,” I choked out, barely a whisper. Micah’s fingers flexed on the nape of my neck, his grip tightening. “I miss you,” I admitted, even quieter, hating myself for it.

His breathing turned shaky, his forehead pressing harder into mine.

“I know,” he replied, pain lining the edges of his voice. He swallowed hard as he squeezed my neck again. “I miss you, too.”

“I’m sorry,” I breathed. Relief filled me with his words, relief that this wasn’t all in my head, that I wasn’t the only one of us still fucked up by what’d happened over two decades ago.

“I’m sorry, too.”

We didn’t speak again after that.

I grabbed him harder, digging my fingers into his muscle, feeling like I’d die the moment I let him go. Neither one of us moved. We just breathed together, letting our past swell to fill every inch of air between us.

I missed him so much it killed me.

Every year I’d spent alone after Micah was full of missing him. Every dark, quiet night when the shadows pressed in too close. Every too-bright morning when I had to force myself to get out of bed alone. I couldn’t even fucking breathe without missing him.

I hated him for making me feel like that.