Chapter 36 Tightening The Strings
Dante POV
Micah left the stairwell in a daze eyes lowered, steps uneven, like he wasn’t fully in his body yet. I watched him disappear around the corner, his shoulders still tense from my touch, from my words, from the question that had slipped out of him without permission. Why do I feel safe with you even when you scare me?
The echo of it clung to my skin long after he was gone. I didn’t answer him then, but the truth curled warm and certain in my chest: because I’d already woven myself through every crack in his defenses. And now, the threads only needed tightening.
The next morning I began pulling them.
I typed the first message while sitting at my desk before class, the sun barely over the horizon.
Eat before practice.
A second message followed instantly.
A full meal, not a bar. Don’t skip.
I imagined his face when he read it, eyebrows lifting, pulse kicking, that familiar confusion mixing with the reluctant comfort he felt whenever I told him what to do. A minute passed before I added another text.
Drink water throughout the day. Not that junk Alison gave you.
I hesitated, thumb hovering, then sent the last one.
Avoid Max today. I’ll know if you don’t.
I didn’t need to check my phone to know Micah read them all within seconds. I could practically feel the jolt of panic he’d get at the phrasing, followed by the unsteady relief he hated admitting even to himself. Control and care sharpened, layered, inseparable.
By afternoon practice, the whispers around campus had doubled, but I didn’t care. When Micah walked into the gym, his eyes flicked to me first, just for a heartbeat uncertain, searching. Good. He was looking. He was learning.
I stepped forward, voice steady. “Micah. Stay after practice.”
His breath caught, chest tightening beneath his jersey. “W-why?”
“Conditioning,” I said simply. “You need it.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t dare.
And that thrilled me more than it should.
Practice ran long. The team scattered across the court, laughs echoing, sneakers squeaking. Max shot me sharp looks every few minutes, but I ignored him the way you ignore a dog barking behind a fence loud, pointless, no real threat if handled correctly.
Micah kept glancing my direction, as if he couldn’t help checking whether I was watching. And I was. Every movement. Every slip of concentration. Every tremor in his hands when our eyes met unexpectedly.
When practice finally ended and the others filtered toward the locker room, Micah lingered awkwardly near the bench, tying and retying the same shoelace.
I approached him slowly.
“Ready?” I asked.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I guess.”
“You guess?” I stepped closer, close enough that he froze. “Try again.”
His breath hitched. “Yes.”
“Good.”
I grabbed a ball and walked to center court. The gym lights hummed overhead, empty bleachers stretching out like silent witnesses. The air felt heavier when it was just the two of us thicker, charged.
“Dribbling lines,” I said. “Full length. No breaks.”
Micah nodded, starting the drill. His movements were tight at first, strained. I walked along the sideline, eyes tracking him the entire time, saying nothing, waiting for him to feel the weight of my attention.
Halfway down the court, he made a mistake. The ball bounced too high.
“Micah.” My voice sliced across the gym.
He flinched. “Sorry...”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said, stepping onto the court. “Be better.”
He tightened his grip and restarted, breathing hard. His eyes kept darting toward me—whether for reassurance or permission, I couldn’t tell. But I liked it.
“Faster,” I ordered.
He pushed himself harder. Sweat formed along his temples.
“Eyes up,” I added.
He lifted them immediately straight to mine.
And that was the moment I knew I had him. Because even out of breath, even struggling, he obeyed before thinking.
“Good,” I murmured. “Again.”
After twenty minutes, his legs shook. After forty, his arms trembled. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even look away unless I broke the eye contact first.
I walked around him slowly during the drills, circling like something patient, something hungry, something that enjoyed the tension winding tighter and tighter inside him. Every time I corrected his form, my hands stayed longer than necessary fingers sliding along his shoulder, guiding his hips, adjusting his grip.
He shivered each time.
“You’re shaking,” I said softly at one point, brushing his wrist.
“I...I’m fine,” he breathed, voice thin.
“You’re not,” I said, stepping behind him, close enough that he stiffened. “And that’s exactly why you’re improving.”
He inhaled sharply.
“Again,” I commanded.
He obeyed instantly.
Good boy.
After an hour, Micah staggered to a stop near the free throw line. His breath came ragged, his jersey clinging to his skin. Sweat dripped down his neck in slow trails. And still, he looked at me like he was waiting for permission to collapse.
I stepped forward until I stood directly in front of him.
“Look at me,” I said.
His eyes snapped to mine, wide, glassy.
I lifted my hand and pushed his damp hair back from his forehead, fingers lingering against his heated skin. He shivered full body, unmistakable.
“You’re trembling again,” I hummed.
He opened his mouth, struggled for words. “I… Dante, I don’t know why—”
“Shhh.”
I let my fingertips trace down the side of his neck, feeling his pulse hammer wildly against my touch. His breath caught loud enough to echo in the empty gym.
“You don’t need to understand anything tonight,” I murmured. “You just need to listen.”
His lips parted, but he didn’t speak.
I leaned closer, close enough that his eyelashes fluttered against the heat of my breath. He tried to step back instinctively, overwhelmed but I placed a hand on his hip, steadying him, keeping him exactly where I wanted him.
“Don’t run from this,” I whispered.
“I’m not..” His voice broke. “I’m just… it’s a lot.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
I circled him again, slow, measured steps. He turned instinctively to follow my movement, eyes tracking me like prey tracking a predator who was also… safety.
When I came to stand behind him again, I placed one hand firmly on his shoulder, the other at his waist. He tensed, trembling even harder.
“Dante…” His voice cracked softly.
I leaned in, lips nearing his ear, close enough for him to feel every syllable before I spoke it.
“Good,” I whispered. “Keep shaking only for me.”
His breath hitched a sharp, helpless sound and he didn’t move. Didn’t run. Didn’t protest.
He just stood there, trembling under my hands, letting the threads I’d woven around him pull tight.
Exactly the way I wanted.