Page 72 of What We Become

I think about the night after the warehouse. The afternoon between all three of us in the kitchen. The way Holden and Milo have moved closer ever since.

“Like you trust Eli,” I say.

Micah’s eyes shift toward the deck. Eli sits with his book open in his lap, his gaze fixed suspiciously on the trees instead of the page. The softness that moves across Micah’s face belongs to Eli alone.

“Eli is my person,” he says. “But you’re my home. One doesn’t take anything from the other.”

“I like that.” I slide off the barstool and cross the narrow gap between us. My ribs pull, but not enough to stop me. “And I don’t want you thinking I’ve forgotten you whenever nobody’s bleeding.”

“I don’t.”

“You better not.” I rest my palms against his chest. “Because I love you, Micah. Not just when you’re holding me through my shit or cooking smiley pancakes. Always.”

His breath catches. For once, he doesn’t rush to take care of me in return. He just lets the words land.

“I love you too, baby girl.”

His hands cup my jaw and he kisses me, slow and warm, coffee and syrup lingering on his mouth.

The mudroom door opens.

We jolt apart.

“—and I’m just saying, from a land management perspective, selective clearing is actually beneficial for⁠—”

Milo storms into the kitchen covered in sawdust. His goggles are shoved onto his forehead, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bright.

“Milo.” Holden’s voice is low and final. “Sit down.”

Milo sits as though his body voted against him. Knox sets the chainsaw on the mudroom floor and stands beside it like he’s guarding a prisoner.

“The branch Knox cleared was only the beginning. We now have an unobstructed sightline from the north camera all the way to the service road”—Milo holds up a hand and starts counting off fingers—“enough firewood to survive a modest ice age, and several viable locations for an elevated observation platform. I’m thinking tree house, but tactical. A murder tree house. Possibly with a zip line.”

“No zip line,” Holden says.

“We’ll workshop it.” Milo reaches across me and steals a pancake from the stack with his bare hand. His fingers keep moving until they have something to hold. “Also, the hot tub is ready.”

Micah and I look at each other.

“Hot tub?” I ask.

“Yeah. I found it behind the woodshed yesterday. I thought the control panel was fried, but it just needed power.” Milo takes an enormous bite of pancake and talks around it. “It’s been heating since before dawn. Currently approaching a medically irresponsible temperature.”

“A medically irresponsible temperature,” Micah repeats.

“One-oh-four.” Milo licks syrup off his thumb, entirely unrepentant. “Give or take whatever it takes to parboil trauma.”

Holden pinches the bridge of his nose. I look from Milo’s bright eyes to the sawdust coating his clothes and the way he hasn’t stopped moving since breakfast. Now he wants to add a body of hot water to the list.

“You know what?” I say. “That sounds amazing.”

Four heads turn. Milo’s eyes go huge. “Wait. Really?”

“My burns are closed, my ribs are healed enough for sitting in warm water, and I’ve spent ten days being a responsible convalescent. I’m owed.”

“Amazing. Kitten’s in!” Milo claps his hands together. “Cabin meeting in thirty minutes. Agenda items include hot tub usage, sleeping arrangements for tonight, whether or not we eat dinner in the hot tub—which I think is very European.” He winks at me. “And my proposal for a tactical tree house. Dress code is as the gods intended.”

“You mean naked,” Micah says.