Chapter 37 Breaking Point
Micah's POV
I barely made it back to my dorm after that private session. My legs still shook with every step, not just from exhaustion but from the way Dante’s whisper lingered in my ear like a ghost I couldn’t outrun. Keep shaking only for me. The words replayed whenever I blinked, curling through my thoughts with a warmth I shouldn’t feel and a fear I couldn’t shake. And by the time I collapsed onto my bed, I wasn’t sure if the tremor in my hands was from adrenaline, dread, or the fact that part of me… hadn’t wanted him to stop.
I didn’t sleep. Or maybe I did, because the next thing I remembered was darkness. Thick, suffocating darkness. I was running down a court that stretched endlessly, the lines blurring beneath my feet as something pulled at my ankles. When I looked down, Dante’s hands emerged from the floor strong, certain, curling around my calves as if they’d always belonged there. His voice drifted upward, velvet and commanding. Micah… stay. I clawed at the air, desperate for something solid, when suddenly another hand grabbed mine from above—l Max’s, shaking, urgent. “Micah, come on! Don’t let him drag you under!” But Dante’s pull was stronger. Warmer. And as the court swallowed me whole, I heard myself choose.
I woke with a jolt, breath punching out of me like I’d been held underwater. Sweat drenched my shirt; my heart thrashed against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest. It took a full minute before I realized I’d whispered something into the pillow, Dante’s name. Not in fear. Not entirely in want. Something in between. Something worse.
The rest of the day was torture. Every shadow made me flinch, every hallway whisper sounded like someone saying his name. I jumped so violently in class when someone asked, “Did Dante cancel practice tomorrow?” that three people turned to stare at me. I forced a laugh, pretending my pen had just slipped, but even I didn’t believe it. My nerves were frayed threads, unraveling with every step I took.
By the time practice ended that afternoon, I was running on fumes. Sweat stung my eyes; my arms felt hollow. Dante hadn’t spoken to me the entire practice except for one quiet, unreadable glance. And somehow that hurt more than anything he’d ever said to me. I made it two steps toward the locker room before someone grabbed my wrist. “Micah.” Max’s voice cracked around my name, breathless like he’d been chasing me. His fingers tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to make me freeze. “Just stop for a second. Please.”
I swallowed hard and turned toward him. His eyes were wide, desperate, searching my face like he’d find bruises that weren’t there. Or ones I’d hidden too well. “What?” I whispered, because my voice wouldn’t go any louder. He looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “Is he hurting you?” My heart plummeted. A cold, sinking weight settled in my stomach. I tried to pull back, but Max didn’t let go. “Micah, look at me,” he insisted, voice trembling. “This isn’t normal. You’re jumpy. You won’t talk to anyone. You’re hell, you’re flinching every time someone says his name. Just tell me what’s going on.”
The words cracked something inside me. I felt myself teetering between truth and the version of myself Dante kept shaping. Between Max’s concern and Dante’s certainty. Max stepped closer. “I’m your friend. I just, I need to know if he’s doing something to you. If he’s..” “He’s not,” I said too fast, too sharp. Max stared at me, disbelief written everywhere. “Micah…” “He’s not!” I repeated, yanking my wrist free. The force of it surprised both of us. “Just stop, Max. You don’t understand.” He took a step forward. “Then explain it.” My lungs squeezed tight. The hallway felt like it was collapsing around me. Explain what? That Dante had pressed his hand to my hip last night and I hadn’t moved? That his voice followed me into my dreams like a chain I kept willingly fastening around myself? That when Max grabbed my wrist, the first thing I wanted to do was run to Dante, not away from him? I shook my head because there was no way to say any of that without sounding insane.
Max softened, voice cracking. “I’m not trying to make you choose sides. I’m trying to keep you safe.” The words should have comforted me. They didn’t. They felt wrong somehow too bright, too open. And all I could think was: Dante would never let someone back me into a corner like this. “I need to go,” I whispered. Max reached for me again, slower this time. “Micah...” “I said I need to go.” I didn’t look at him again. I couldn’t. Instead, I walked fast, unsteady down the hallway, my mind spiraling with guilt and relief and fear all tangled into one impossible knot. And yet… it wasn’t Max I was thinking about. It was him.
By the time I stepped outside, the sky was already dark, wind cutting sharp through the courtyard. My hands still shook, whether from Max’s question or the dream or the way Dante’s absence dug under my skin like a splinter. I reached for my phone before I could stop myself. Don’t do it, I told myself. Don’t be stupid. Don’t text him. Don’t give him more of you. But the compulsion was stronger than reason. Stronger than fear. I opened my messages. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long, long moment. I could still feel Max’s grip on my wrist, but it was the ghost of Dante’s hand on my hip that pushed the words out of me. Where are you? I hit send. I stared at the screen afterward, breath shallow, pulse in my throat. I shouldn’t have done it. I knew I shouldn’t. Every part of me screamed that texting him was crossing some invisible line. But the second the message appeared in the chat bubble, a shiver rushed through me. Because wanting him felt like drowning. And somehow, drowning felt safer than breathing.