Page 598 of End Game

Then it disappears.

“I don't want you to beat the guilt out of me or some shit, Ronan.”

“I know.”

“I don't feel guilty.”

“I believe you.”

His gaze drops. “I just feel it all the fucking time.”

It’s not dramatic—Micah rarely is.

“My mom crying. My dad's face. Every time my phone goes off, part of me still thinks it might be one of them saying they've changed their minds, even though I know they haven't.”

He flexes his fingers once. “I don't want to think about any of it for a while.”

I study him. “What do you want to think about?”

His eyes meet mine. “Whatever you're doing to me.”

My body reacts before I have finished deciding what I think about the answer.

Not because I am aroused by his grief.

That distinction is important enough that I examine it immediately.

I am aroused by Micah asking me for pain.

By the trust in the request.

By the idea of taking his controlled, stubborn body apart carefully enough that he can stop holding himself together for a few hours.

Those are not the same thing.

I do not need them to be.

“What kind of pain?”

“Deep impact.”

That surprises me less than it probably should.

Micah has always been interested when we discuss impact. He asks technical questions during workshops. Watched closely when Jeremiah talked about tools. Understands spacing, rebound, safe placement, skin response.

I think all of us quietly filed that under things Micah wants to do to someone else.

Dom-leaning switch.

The first half became more visible, so we treated the second as theoretical.

That may have been our assumption, not his.

“How much experience do you have receiving?”

“Some.”

“How much is some?”