Chapter 28 Emotional Exposure
Dante POV
The corridor outside Micah’s dorm was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that settled into your bones and made every sound feel louder than it should have been. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering just enough to be irritating, just enough to make shadows stretch too long against the walls. I walked slowly, my footsteps measured, controlled, as if I wasn’t already three moves ahead of the moment waiting behind his door. Timing mattered tonight, and I’d learned long ago that vulnerability only bloomed when you created the right conditions for it.
Micah’s door was slightly ajar when I reached it, the warm glow from inside spilling into the hallway like an invitation he didn’t realize he’d sent. I paused there, listening, letting the moment breathe. I could hear him moving inside soft shuffling, a frustrated exhale, the unmistakable sound of someone pacing with nowhere to put their thoughts. I knocked once, not too loud, not too gentle, and waited.
“Yeah?” His voice came out rough, already stripped of the edge he wore around others.
“It’s me,” I said simply, pushing the door open before he could respond.
He looked up from where he sat on the edge of his bed, towel slung over his shoulders, hair still damp from a rushed shower. His eyes flicked to the clock, then back to me, uncertainty tightening his jaw. The exhaustion from earlier was still there, clinging to him like sweat he couldn’t wash off.
“You didn’t text,” he said, not accusing, just wary.
“I didn’t need to,” I replied, closing the door behind me with a quiet click that sealed us in.
The room smelled like soap and clean laundry, mixed with something distinctly Micah warm, unsettled, human. His bed was unmade, sheets twisted like he’d fought them, and his desk was cluttered with books he hadn’t touched in days. I let my gaze take it all in, cataloging the chaos, before meeting his eyes again.
“You okay?” I asked.
He scoffed softly, running a hand through his damp hair. “Define okay.”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I crossed the room and leaned against the desk, close enough that he could feel my presence without me invading his space. I’d learned that Micah responded better when he thought he had room to breathe, even when he was suffocating.
“You pushed yourself hard today,” I said calmly. “Harder than you should have.”
“You’re the one who kept calling for another set,” he shot back, but there was no bite in it.
“And you kept answering,” I replied. “Why?”
His mouth opened, then closed. He looked away, jaw tightening again, and that was my opening. Silence, when used correctly, was more effective than pressure. I waited him out, watching his knee bounce, watching the tension climb up his spine.
“Because if I don’t,” he muttered finally, “someone else will.”
I tilted my head slightly. “Someone like Max?”
That got his attention. He looked at me sharply, eyes narrowing. “You noticed that too?”
“I notice everything,” I said lightly, though my fingers curled against the desk. “He’s been watching you.”
Micah laughed under his breath, humorless. “Everyone’s watching me lately.”
“Not like he is.”
The room shifted then, something subtle but unmistakable snapping into place. Micah’s shoulders slumped just a little, like he’d been holding himself upright out of spite alone. He rubbed his palms against his thighs, grounding himself, and avoided my eyes again.
“They’ve been talking,” he said quietly.
“Who’s they?” I asked, though I already knew.
“Alison. Her friends. Some guys from the lower courts.” He swallowed. “About you and me.”
I pushed off the desk and took a step closer, careful, deliberate. “And what are they saying?”
“That I’m riding your coattails,” he said bitterly.
“That I’m special because I let you—” He stopped himself, face flushing. “Because I let you get close.”
I let the silence stretch, watching him unravel in inches. “And what do you think?”
He laughed again, sharper this time. “I think I’m tired, Dante. I think I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”
I reached out then, not touching him yet, just close enough that he could feel the heat of me.
“Look at me.”
He hesitated before lifting his gaze, eyes glassy, raw. I kept my voice low, steady. “You don’t owe them an explanation.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he whispered. “You don’t have to live with it.”
I stepped closer, closing the gap fully now. “You think I haven’t?”
That made him pause. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” I said quietly, “I know what it’s like to be watched, dissected, turned into a rumor before you ever get a say.”
His breath hitched, just slightly. I could see the walls crumbling now, the cracks spreading faster than he could patch them.
“They look at me like I’m already guilty,” he admitted. “Like I’ve done something wrong just by standing next to you.”
I reached out and finally rested my hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle. He stiffened at first, then relaxed into it, like his body had been waiting for permission to fall apart.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” I said. “And you won’t.”
His voice broke. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” I asked.
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between us.
“Feeling like I’m always one mistake away from losing everything.”
I squeezed his shoulder slightly. “Then stop carrying it alone.”
He laughed weakly. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“Is it?” I countered. “Because you’re here. You let me in.”
He looked up at me again, searching my face like he was trying to memorize it. “Why do you care so much?”
The question lingered between us, heavy, dangerous. I chose my answer carefully, because truth didn’t always need to be complete to be effective.
“Because I see you,” I said simply.
His breath shuddered. “You see what?”
“The part of you that keeps pretending you’re fine,” I replied. “The part that thinks exhaustion is the price of being wanted.”
His eyes filled, and he looked away quickly, blinking hard. “I hate that you’re right.”
I moved then, sitting beside him on the bed, close enough that our shoulders touched. He didn’t pull away. That was everything.
“You don’t have to be strong with me,” I said quietly.
He let out a shaky laugh. “You don’t play fair.”
“No,” I agreed. “I don’t.”
For a long moment, we sat there in silence, the room breathing around us. His shoulder leaned into mine, tentative at first, then heavier, like gravity was finally winning. I stayed still, letting him set the pace, letting the dependence take root on its own.
“Dante?” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
“Promise me something.”
I turned slightly, looking down at him. “What?”
“Don’t let them take this away,” he said softly.
“Whatever this is.”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I reached up and brushed my thumb gently along his temple, grounding him, claiming the moment. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, trust written plainly across his face.
“I won’t,” I said finally. “I take care of what’s mine.”
He didn’t argue. He just leaned into me, and I let him already planning the next move.