Page 610 of End Game

Another breath.

“You.”

The word is almost too quiet to hear.

I move closer. “Say it clearly.”

His eyes stay closed. “You decide.”

“Good.”

Something settles into place inside me.

Not power, but responsibility.

The distinction matters.

I don’t continue much longer.

That is the point.

Micah asked me to decide.

So I do.

His body is flushed and marked, broad stripes of red already deepening at the edges. There are places where the skin may break if I strike there again. He’s sniffling, and his breathing has gone slow and uneven. When I ask for his color now, his answer takes several seconds to arrive, but it is still consent.

“Green.”

His hands are still where I put them.

His legs are starting to shake enough that remaining upright has become effort.

He would take more.

I know that.

He would probably ask for more if I let the silence sit long enough.

That does not mean he needs it.

I set the strap down. “Enough.”

Micah inhales.

For one second, nothing happens.

Then the structure disappears.

His arms slide down the table.

His knees buckle.

I am already moving.

I catch him before he reaches the floor, one arm around his chest and the other beneath his weight, lowering both of us carefully until I am sitting with my back against the table and Micah is half across my lap.

He does not resist, but he also does not help.

His head falls against my shoulder.

Deep.

Deeper than I have ever seen him.

I pull the blanket down from the shelf above us and wrap it around him, keeping every movement slow enough that his body can follow.

“Micah.”

His eyes flutter.

“I'm here.” Barely audible.

“I know.” I tighten my arm around him. “You don't have to do anything now.”

His eyes close again.

This time, he believes me.