Chapter 56 Dante Reads Micah Too Well
(Dante POV)
The building felt wrong the moment Micah walked away from me. His footsteps were too fast, his shoulders too high, his breathing too uneven. I watched him retreat down the hall, and everything in me recognized the pattern he wasn’t leaving; he was hiding. Players run when they’re scared. But Micah? Micah burrows himself somewhere quiet, somewhere dim, somewhere he thinks no one will follow him. He forgets I’ve studied him more closely than anyone else ever has.
I waited ten seconds, then twenty. Then I followed.
His trail was easy. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above me as I turned down the same hallway, the weight of the silence thickening with every step. Coaches usually go home hours ago. Players have curfews. The building at night feels like a confession booth with too many corners to hide in, and Micah always chooses the one furthest from the exit, as if getting caught is safer than getting found outside alone.
I checked the first hallway: empty.
The second: empty.
Then I heard it the soft, uneven inhale someone makes when they’re trying not to cry.
Micah.
He was behind the supply room door, the one with the broken lock that didn’t latch unless someone shoved it hard. He hadn’t shoved it. He wanted a barrier, not a barricade. The difference mattered. It meant he wasn’t running from me. He was running from whatever he refused to name.
I pushed the door open quietly. He was sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up, hands pressed to his forehead, phone still glowing beside him.
One glance at the screen told me everything I needed to know, it wasn’t normal messages lighting it up. The glow was too bright, too repetitive, like someone was texting him relentlessly. And the way he snatched the phone up the second the door creaked confirmed it wasn’t something he wanted me to see.
“Micah,” I said softly.
He flinched like I’d struck him. His head whipped up, eyes wide, face flushed with fear he tried to hide too late. He shoved the phone into his jacket pocket like that would erase the panic from his expression. His breaths came too fast, too shallow, and his fingers trembled against his knees.
“I told you I needed to go,” he said, voice shaking.
“You walked into a supply room and sat on the floor,” I replied, stepping inside and shutting the door behind me. “That’s not going anywhere.”
He looked away. “I just needed a minute.”
“No,” I corrected gently, “you needed distance. From me.”
His jaw tensed, and he curled inward slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller. It made something cold and sharp twist deep in my chest. Self-protection from me? From the one person who has carried him more than he’s carried himself? That wouldn’t do.
I crouched in front of him, slow and careful, until my knees brushed his. He stiffened but didn’t pull away. He never did. Even when he swore he wanted space, his body leaned toward me like it didn’t understand the concept of leaving.
“Look at me,” I said quietly.
He shook his head, eyes glued to the floor, breath unsteady. “I can’t.”
“You can,” I murmured. “You just don’t want me to see the truth in your eyes.”
His throat bobbed with a swallowed breath.
“There’s nothing to see.”
“That’s a lie.”
He squeezed his hands tighter against his forehead, shoulders trembling. “Dante, please don’t.”
I reached out slowly and touched his jaw with two fingers. Not forcing, just guiding. He froze.
Then he lifted his gaze. His eyes looked glassy, wild around the edges, like someone had scraped raw fear across the surface. It punched through me so sharply I almost forgot to breathe, hecause this wasn’t nerves. This wasn’t exhaustion. This wasn’t the normal panic he tried to hide.
This was terror.
“Who’s hurting you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He inhaled sharply too sharply like the question slammed into his lungs.
“No one,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
Micah has tells he doesn’t know about. His lies always start on the exhale. His eyes drop right first. His shoulders draw inward like he’s protecting something. All three happened at once.
I slid my thumb along his jaw, feeling the tremor there. “You know lying to me is useless.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.”
His breath stuttered.
I leaned in just enough for him to feel the heat of my words. “Who sent the messages?”
His eyes widened a fraction too much then he went completely still. He didn’t blink, he didn’t breathe, he didn’t move.
His stillness was louder than any confession.
“Micah,” I murmured, “your fear has a source. Tell me.”
He pressed his lips together, the muscles in his throat tightening with effort.
“I can handle it,” he said finally.
“No,” I said softly. “You can’t. Not alone.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“Yes, it is.”
He sucked in a breath, shaking his head hard. “I’m not doing this with you. I’m not, I can’t tell you. You’ll… you’ll do something.”
That hit me harder than it should have.
“You’re afraid of what I’ll do,” I said. Not a question. A realization.
He blinked fast, like he regretted speaking at all.
I let my hand slide from his jaw to his cheek, fingers curved gently, grounding him even as he trembled beneath my touch.
“I only go after people who hurt you,” I said quietly.
“That’s what I mean,” he whispered.
Silence.
Heavy. Thick. Charged. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the wall. Or into me. I wasn’t sure which impulse was stronger.
I lifted his chin slightly. “Tell me.”
He shook his head again, breaths rapid. “I can’t.”
“Because they threatened you?” I asked.
His flinch gave me the answer I needed, something cold slid through my veins. Not fear, not concern. Something darker. Something precise. Something protective enough to burn.
“Who?” I breathed.
He closed his eyes, refusing. I studied him. Every tremor. Every controlled breath. Every glance toward his pocket where the phone hid. Every inch of him vibrating with the weight of something he’d rather break under than share with me. Then I understood.
“They used something against you.” His breath caught.
“And it’s something from before you came here.”
His shoulders jerked.
I leaned closer, my forehead almost touching his.
“Micah… look at me.”
He did, regret flashed. Fear followed. Shame crashed behind it. I saw all of it. I always do.
“You’re carrying something alone,” I whispered.
“Something you don’t trust me with.” His eyes filled, bright and frightened.
“I’m trying to protect you,” he choked out.
“You protect me by telling me the truth.”
“That’s not fair,” he whispered.
“Neither is this.” I brushed away the tear that spilled from the corner of his eye. “You shaking in a supply closet because someone thinks they can get to you.”
He sucked in a shaky breath. “Please… don’t make me say it.”
I stared at him for a long moment. Long enough for him to understand exactly how closely I was reading him. Long enough for him to realize he had no secrets I couldn’t eventually unravel.
He looked like he might break and I couldn’t let him break without breaking the hands that caused it.
I shifted, kneeling fully in front of him, hands braced on either side of him against the wall. A cage without touching him. A shelter without permission.
“Micah,” I murmured, “someone hurt your peace.”
He whispered, barely audible, “Yes.”
My voice dropped into something dark enough to vibrate against his skin. “Then I will destroy them.”
His breath caught harshly. “No Dante don’t..” I cut him off gently.
A finger against his lips, a hush made of heat and control.
“I’m not asking,” I whispered.
His pulse throbbed under my thumb,his eyes were wide, frightened, but not moving away from me.
“You’re mine to protect,” I said softly. “And I don’t let anyone touch what’s mine.”
He trembled hard enough for the wall to catch the movement and he didn’t deny it. He didn’t say he wasn’t mine, he didn’t push me away, he didn’t move at all.
He only whispered, “Please… don’t make things worse.”
I leaned closer, letting my breath brush his cheek, my voice sinking low enough to slip into him.
“Micah,” I murmured, “whoever is doing this… I will find them.”
He closed his eyes, defeated.
“And when I do,” I continued, “they will regret ever thinking they could touch you.”
His next breath was a soft, broken thing.
“Dante,” he whispered, “please.”
I let my fingers trail from his cheek to his jaw again, holding him steady, holding him here.
“Whatever’s scaring you,” I said quietly, “it answers to me now.” And he knew from the way I said it, from the way the room shifted, from the way I looked at him like I could peel the world apart for his sake that I meant every word.