Chapter 31 Could've been worse
We eventually move to the living room, it's dimmer. Michael sits first, claiming his space. I hesitate a beat, then take the opposite edge of the couch, leaving a careful stretch of empty cushion between us. He scoffs softly.
I glance over. “What?”
One brow lifts, his gaze drops to the space, then back to my face. He gestures with two fingers, lazy but pointed. “That,” he says. “You’re just daring me to cross that, aren’t you?”
I huff despite myself. “Maybe I like my personal space.”
He turns to me, and for a second he just looks put out. Not wounded....just theatrically disappointed. His shoulders drop a fraction, his mouth twists, and he exhales through his nose as if he’s bracing himself.
“For how long are you going to keep playing hard to get?” he asks, mostly amused, a little plaintive. I feel the smile tug at my mouth before I can stop it. I tilt my head, letting my gaze linger on him.
“Is that the end game?” I ask quietly. “To ‘get’ me?”
The words come out lighter than they feel. Something flickers across his face....amusement, yes, but also something more focused. He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees then lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. He drags a hand over his face, then looks at me again, eyes too sharp.
“I just told you about my mum,” he says. “Dead mum. Big reveal.” He gestures vaguely at his chest like he’s pointing to an exposed nerve. “Usually when I drop that, people go all soft. Voices lower. They scoot closer like proximity might resurrect her.”
I blink at him.
“If you’ve got even a shred of humanity,” he goes on, eyes daring me, “you’d do the same. Move closer.”
I frown and shake my head before I can stop myself. “I literally just told you I had cancer.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Dead mum beats low-level cancer any day.”
I stare at him, eyes widening in shock, and he casually stares right back.
“Low—” I start, incredulous. “Low-level?”
“You survived,” he says. “I visit a box in the ground.”
“That is not how that works.”
“It absolutely is,” he argues. “This is comparative trauma. I helped publish a whole book on it. Bestseller, naturally....because who doesn’t love ranking misery? So yes, I’m officially qualified to tell you whose life is more tragic.”
I huff out a laugh despite myself. “You don’t get to rank tragedies.”
“I do when I’m losing,” he counters, then flicks his eyes pointedly to the empty space between us. “I assure you this space isn't radioactive.”
“It’s a perfectly reasonable amount of space,” I say. “Socially acceptable.”
“For strangers, not for someone who just bared his soul to you.”
I press my lips together, fighting the smile that wants out. My brow lifts as I study him for a beat. “If the space is affecting you that much,” I say lightly, “....you could always move closer. I’m fairly certain you’re fully capable of mobility.”
His mouth twitches, offended on principle. “That would be giving in.”
I hum and slowly nod. “Heaven forbid.”
He straightens a little, squaring his shoulders like this is suddenly a matter of honor. “There are too many people out there with dead mums who would be deeply disappointed if I folded this easily.”
I snort. “Suit yourself.”
And then I lean back into the couch, letting my head rest against the cushion. I close my eyes and let out a slow, steady breath. The silence stretches. I can feel him looking at me but I don’t open my eyes or move. I give him nothing.
There’s a faint sound, his tongue clicking against his teeth. Followed by a quiet exhale that’s more surrender than breath.
“Fine,” he says at last, irritation threaded with something warmer. “I’ll fucking move.”
I crack one eye open just in time to see him shift closer.
“But,” he adds, leaning in slightly, “only because I know you were hoping I would.”
Something in me eases the second he's close, a knot I didn’t realize I’d been holding finally loosens. My shoulders drop, my breathing evens. I imagine that this must be what alignment feels like. When another person fits beside you without effort. When the closeness doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t bruise or crowd.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
I turn my head. He’s already watching me. Leaned back against the couch, close enough that I’m fully aware of him. There’s no space left to pretend otherwise.
“Why?”
“You seem like you might be.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m relaxed.”
He nods, then clears his throat. The sound is soft and careful. “Thank you,” he says. “For telling me. About the cancer. That’s a lot for anyone. It must've been overwhelming, especially being that young.”
I blink, for a moment, there’s nothing in me to offer back. No clever deflection. No practiced line. Just a quiet space where a response should be.
“It could’ve been worse,” I say finally.
His eyes narrow, he gives a small shake of his head. “I really hate that phrase,” he admits, I stay quiet.
“People use it like a broom,” he goes on, voice steady but edged now. “Like if they sweep the worst parts under it, the pain will look smaller. More acceptable. Like you’re supposed to be grateful your trauma didn’t win some imaginary competition.”
I let out a quiet chuckle before I can stop myself. Michael frowns, already about to ask what, I don’t give him the chance. I tip my head sideways and rest it against his shoulder.
I’ve thought about doing it. Weighed it, overthought it, pulled back at the last second. But this time I just do it. Because sometimes it really is that simple. Because my body already knows what it needs, even when my head is still trying to negotiate terms. He goes still beneath me. Like he doesn’t want to spook whatever this is. A second passes. Then another.
His arm slides around my shoulder, resting there like it belongs. His other hand finds mine without looking, fingers threading through like they’ve done this a thousand times. I breathe out, then think about what he just said and my lips curve slightly.
“You get really passionate about things.”
He hums, the sound vibrating faintly through his shoulder.
“Have you ever considered a career as a motivational speaker?” I go on. “You’ve got the righteous outrage down.”
He exhales a short laugh. “No, I don’t inspire people. I unsettle them with uncomfortable truths. Entirely different skill set.”
Silence settles again...comfortable, unforced. The kind that doesn’t ask to be filled. Then he shifts just slightly, and I feel his breath in my hair...soft and warm. Followed by a fleeting, barely-there kiss lands on the top of my head, and it shocks me, undoes me, leaving a tremor I didn’t know I was holding back.
I swallow.
“Michael?” I call out softly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry about your mum.”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Then his grip on my hand tightens just a fraction.
“Me too Ryan....me too.”