Chapter 14 Shadows Of The Past
Dante’s POV
The storm leaves the suite damp and quiet, like the air itself has been wrung out. I sit alone in my room long after Micah retreats behind his door, the echo of his stillness lingering in my hands. My fingers flex once, slowly, remembering the way he didn’t pull away. The silence feels earned.
I open my laptop and let the screen glow cut through the dark. The familiar folder sits exactly where it always has, unhidden, unnamed, unremarkable to anyone but me. I click it open and the first frame freezes, Micah at sixteen, jersey too big, hair curling at the nape of his neck as he waits for the inbound. He looks thinner there, sharper in a way hunger carves into boys who want something badly enough.
“Run,” the coach in the video shouts.
Micah runs.
He always did. He always does.
The footage rolls, grainy and imperfect, but it doesn’t matter. I know every cut, every fake, every moment he glances to the side like he’s checking who’s watching. I lean back in my chair, eyes tracking him across the screen, and feel the old pull tighten in my chest. Back then, I didn’t have his name. I just had the way he moved, the way he looked like he was fleeing something only he could see.
I pause the video when he stumbles, catches himself, and laughs it off with a teammate. The laugh is different from now. Looser. Unburdened. It irritates me.
“You don’t laugh like that anymore,” I murmur to the empty room.
My phone buzzes with a message from the team group chat, plans shifting because of the storm delay. I read it once, then twice, already adjusting the week in my head. Film on Tuesday. Extra drills Wednesday. Optional gym Thursday, optional in name only. I type a response that looks casual enough and set the phone aside.
I rewind the footage and watch Micah again. This time, I focus on the moments between plays. The way his shoulders tense when someone shouts too close. The way his eyes flick to the bench when the crowd gets loud. Vulnerability leaves fingerprints if you know where to look.
There’s a knock at my door.
I don’t jump. I already know who it is.
“Dante?” Micah’s voice filters through the wood, hesitant but present. “You got a charger? Mine’s dead.”
I close the laptop without shutting it down.
“Yeah,” I call back. “One sec.”
When I open the door, he’s standing there barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. His hair is still damp from a rushed shower, curls darker and softer. He doesn’t meet my eyes right away, and that’s new.
I hand him the charger. Our fingers brush again, brief but deliberate this time.
“Thanks,” he says.
“No problem.”
He doesn’t leave immediately. He shifts his weight, glances down the hall, then back at me. “Storm’s supposed to last all night,” he adds, like he needs an excuse to stay standing there.
“So I heard,” I reply.
Another pause. Another crack in the quiet.
“Goodnight,” he says finally.
“Night, Micah.”
He walks away, shoulders tight, steps careful. I watch until his door closes, then I shut mine with a soft click and lean my forehead against it. The smile that pulls at my mouth is slow and unashamed.
I return to the desk and open the laptop again. The video is still paused on his younger face, eyes bright and unaware. I close the folder this time and open my calendar instead, dragging blocks of time into new shapes. Lunch lines up with his break. Study hall overlaps with my “free” period.
The gym slot sits empty and waiting.
“You make this easy,” I say quietly.
The next morning, I catch him watching me over breakfast, eyes darting away when I look back. I let the moment stretch, let him feel seen, then smile like it’s nothing. He relaxes just a fraction, and I catalog it.
At practice, I say his name more than necessary. Not loud. Not commanding. Just enough to anchor him. Every time, his attention snaps to me, body aligning instinctively. He follows my cues without realizing it, mirrors my movements, waits for my nod.
“Good,” I tell him after a clean drive.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath.
Later, when the team disperses, he lingers again. This time, I don’t pretend not to notice.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says too quickly. “Just tired.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
His eyes flick up, searching my face. “I know.”
Do you? I think.
That night, I sit on my bed with the lights off, listening to him move around in his room. The rustle of fabric. The soft thud of a book dropped. The pause before sleep. Each sound slots into place, part of a rhythm I’m learning by heart.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a message meant for him, sent to me by mistake. Do you ever feel like people already decided who you are?
I stare at the screen, pulse steady.
I type back carefully. Only when I let them.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Goodnight, he sends.
Sleep well, I reply.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling, the weight in my chest no longer sharp but spreading, sinking deeper. Desire was easy.
Desire was simple. This is something else, something that settles into bone and thought and routine.
He isn’t just someone I want.
He’s someone I’m already arranging my life around.
When I close my eyes, I don’t see the footage anymore. I see him as he is now guarded, bright, trying so hard to stay intact. I imagine the moment those defenses finally give, not with force but with trust.
And the thought that settles over me then is calm and certain and terrifying in its clarity.
He’s been in my sight for years.
Now he’s within reach.
And whether he understands it yet or not, Micah Brooks is already standing exactly where I want him inside the shape I’ve been building all along.