Delicate silence — her entire apartment is blanketed in it.
Colder than the icy currents rolling through Pullman, it sends a rush of unease down my back as I step through the front door. It's a silence that settles on my skin like the sleet pouring from the dense cloud cover shrouding the moon. It's a silence that shatters beneath my boot as I take my next step into the dark.
The snap echoes like a gunshot.
The wind picks up, slinging sleet against the windows and glass door in the living room, pulling at the clouds just enough to release a sliver of pale moonlight. It's enough for my eyes to adjust to the shadows, enough for me to recognize what I've stepped on.
I stumble back a step, watching the snapped drawing pencil roll from beneath my boot and into the shadows. Another gust of wind whips past, illuminating the hardwood for a heartbeat. Long enough to spot Josie's school bag lying at my feet, its contents spilled across the floor.
Her green sketchbook — the one she handles with a damn near reverent gentleness — is splayed open, broken on the floor from the fall. Its pages are bent, creased, and drowning beneath a pool of midnight blue seeping from a cracked paint bottle still hemorrhaging on top of it.
"Fuck." I drop to a knee, careful not to crease the pages any more than they already are while the icy paint coats my fingers.
The fall cracked the book's spine, loosening the pages that fall to my feet like autumn leaves.
"Fuck, fuck —" It's a harsh exhale through gritted teeth as I collect the pages, trying to slip them back into the broken shell of the book, but they're soaked in paint, clumping together and refusing to slide back into place. It hits me then, as I stare down at a veritable piece of Josie's heart, this — this isn't something I can fix.
This isn't something I can save.
This sketchbook, once gilded in vibrant color, is now lost to the deepest shade of midnight, the pigment seeping through the pages like blood. Blood that's now coating my hands, sliding down my palms and soaking the sleeves of my hoodie.
"Jos?" I call out, eyes fixed on the destroyed sketchbook in my hands.
Silence.
Silence so loud it grates.
"Josie!" I call again, glancing around the unlit apartment. There's a stack of Biology textbooks on the bartop counter, one open with an uncapped highlighter sitting atop it while a massive stack of multicolored flashcards towers beside it. A glass with what looks like iced coffee has melted, the condensation pooling around the base of the cup.
A quick succession of squeaks breaks the silence. Followed by the sound of paws hitting the floor and the soft click of a door opening.
And then the softest intake of breath echoes from the hallway — a gasp that catches in her throat.
I'm up before I can figure out what to do with the sodden book in my hands, but it's too late to decide if I should hide it from her because the second I step further into the living room, I spot her. Standing at the entry of the hall in an oversized sweater, mismatched socks, tear-stained cheeks, puffy eyes, and an expression I've never seen on her — grief.
"Jos, what's going on?" She hasn't caught sight of the sketchbook yet, so I discreetly slide it behind my back and into the waistband of my jeans as I step toward her.
She tilts her head up to meet my eyes, blinking away the sapphire tears clinging to her lashes. She looks — dazed, half-awake — and I have a sinking feeling she cried herself to sleep at some point today and I just woke her up.
Footsteps echo from behind her as Blondie slips out of Josie's room, her eyes and cheeks just as flushed and swollen. She looks like she just woke up too, and it doesn't take much to figure out they fell asleep crying together. Blondie's dog is clutched to her chest, the purple toy squeaking away while her little tail goes fucking crazy. Wincing at the sound, Blondie steals the toy, pressing a kiss to the dog's face in apology as she walks toward us.
"I'll start dinner, Jo." She doesn't look at me as she presses a kiss to Josie's cheek and slips away into the living room.
That's — a problem for later.
Right now, my attention is fixed on Josie. She's crying a steady stream of silent tears. I want to take another step toward her, but I also don't want to make this worse. I'm waiting for a sign — for anything that might indicate how she needs me to help her.
"Jos —"
She swipes away the tears dripping from her jaw with the back of her hand, finally meeting my eyes. Her small shoulders lift and drop helplessly as she heaves in a broken breath and tries to smile. She puts up a fair fight, I can see it in her eyes, the determination to not let it fall, but it's shaky at best and cracks quickly, evolving into the most heartbreaking expression of undiluted grief I've ever seen.
It's a knee-jerk reaction — an instinct deeply ingrained.
Three steps and I have her in my arms, her legs wrapped around my waist, and her face seeking refuge against my throat. The second her arms loop around my shoulders, clinging to the collar of my hoodie with shaking fists, she breaks. Sobs — deep, guttural, aching sobs rock through her.
All I can do is tighten my hold on her, pulling her closer.
Closer, but not close enough.
Not close enough to ease the pain radiating from her in waves.
I walk us through the hall to her bedroom, nudge the door closed with my shoe, and sit on the edge of her mattress.
"Jos —" I slide my hand up her sweater, resting it against the back of her ribs. She's shaking, body heaving with each clipped sob, but she's not breathing. Not enough. "Breathe, baby. Please."
I pull her closer, as close as I physically can, and mold her chest to mine as I take deep, steady, exaggerated breaths — a rhythm for her to follow.
It takes a while, but when her back rises with her first deep breath, the anxiety in my chest eases.
"Good girl, keep breathing," I murmur against the shell of her ear.
She shudders, hot gasps of breath fanning against my throat. Her tears slide down my neck, soaking the t-shirt beneath my hoodie. I keep my hand on her back, rubbing slow circles to mimic the rhythm of the breathing I'm trying to lead her toward. After the strongest waves of grief pass, she loosens her grip on me, nuzzling her nose against my throat, and focuses on matching my breathing. Slow and steady. Deep breaths that I can measure with my hand on her back with the rise and fall of her body.
The paint on my hands has left prints on her skin — her back, her arms, her thighs — but she doesn't seem to mind as she comes down from the final wave of emotion. More likely, she hasn't noticed. She's not grounded enough in her body to feel it.
Her hands have finally stopped shaking, her breathing now in line with mine, and as she nuzzles her nose against my pulse, pressing soft kisses against my throat, I sigh at the feel of her fingers sifting through the too-long hair curling at my nape, her nails just barely grazing my skin the way she knows I like.
It takes a second for me to realize that this is a thank you.
I keep her in my arms and run my fingertips up and down her spine, appreciating the rise and fall of her body as she breaths steadily. Her back rises with the calmest breath yet as she breathes me in, and I can feel the muscles in her body finally release their tension. When she finally leans back in my lap enough for me to study her face, her hands slide from my shoulders to my chest. She traces the outline of the logo on my hoodie — some old boxing brand — and the rhythmic movement seems to help calm her because when she finally meets my gaze, her eyes aren't so glassy.
"Decision emails were sent out this morning."
Decision emails.
It takes me a second. And then it hits me like a shot to the ribs.
Decision emails. For the Art Program.
"It has to be a unanimous yes from every professor in the program, and I —" she bites the inside of her lip, blinking away the tears clinging to her lashes. "I was one off. The one who didn't pass me, he...he made his opinion of my skill level — or lack thereof — abundantly clear, so..."
"UCLA." My voice doesn't sound like my own. It sounds distant, hoarse.
"UCLA." She nods, sniffling and wiping at her nose with her sleeve.
"UCLA," I echo dumbly, trying to process this.
Her cheeks are turning red, almost like she's not breathing again, and her eyes well up quickly, a telltale sign that we're headed for another breakdown. She shakes her head, but I have a feeling it's more to herself than to me, chastising herself for crying.
I pull her in, and she wraps her arms around me, finding refuge in the crook of my neck as a new wave of emotion crests.
I want to tell her that I'll figure this out.
I'm about to graduate. She'd leave in the summer. I could go with her.
If I don't get drafted, I could go to L.A.
I could talk to Coach — set up an introduction meeting with the UCLA coaches. Teams are always looking for assistant coaches. Their defense needs work. It would be shit money, sure, but it'd only be for two years. It'd be enough for an apartment big enough for us — maybe a two-bedroom for a small studio, or a guest room. She'd probably want Blondie to visit.
There's a massive boxing community down there. I'm sure I could find a connect. Get into the underground shit to make money to send up to Trey for the boys and mom. It could work. I could make this work.
It's not the same, though.
I know it's not the same. It's not the life in Pullman. It's not the right art program. It's not with the professors she's idolized since she was a kid. It's not the life she's imagined for herself since she was a kid.
And that's why I can't bring myself to say it.
Not while she's still holding on to the wisps of this dream. Not while she's grieving its death.
"I don't want to go," she whispers against my throat, and then, even quieter, as if she's trying to convince herself, "But I need to go. I need to go. I need to go. I need to go."
A fresh current of hot tears slides down her cheeks, running down my neck.
"You will," I whisper back, slipping my hands under her sweater to rub her back again. "You will go. I'll help you. I'll get you there, I promise you, Jos. I'll get you there."
We stay like that for a while, listening to sleet fall heavily against her bedroom window, the distant sounds of Halle cooking, and the soft measure of our breathing. When she pulls away, I tuck the hairs clinging to her tear-stained face behind her ears and cup her cheeks, watching the light in her eyes slowly, so fucking slowly, flicker back to life.
It's a small spark, but it's there.
I want to kiss her, to promise her that her future is made up of so much more than this one broken dream, but before I can she leans forward and kisses me. Her lips are salty and gentle, so damn delicate it physically fucking hurts.
She's fragile right now, I can feel it in the timid caress of her palms on my throat as she threads her fingers through my hair, in the way she turns her head, brushing her lips against mine, in the way she pulls back, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in the paint on my hands, smeared between us both, for the first time.
Stroking the now-dried paint on my palms she frowns. "I forgot I had paint in my bag. I didn't mean for it to break."
I hesitate, counting the breaths that span between us, before reaching back and pulling the sketchbook from my waistband.
She stares at it, at the pages hanging out, the rips and creases and color lost to the void of black.
"I tried to —" I don't even know, save it? Fix it?
"It's okay." She takes it from me and sifts through a few saturated pages, her eyes filling again. When she shuts the book, she places her hand on the bent cover for a moment before placing it on her nightstand, wiping at the tears sliding down her with the back of her paint-stained hand.
Letting her head fall back, she squeezes her eyes shut. We've been sitting in the dark this entire time — darkness that's only partially broken up by the night light plugged into her wall. A night light that she adamantly refuses to admit is a night light and instead insists is a fragrance diffuser that just happens to also have a light.
Whatever the fuck it is, I'm grateful for it. For the soft glow that illuminates the room enough for me to catch the fortifying breath she takes before she drops her chin and looks at her hands. She smooths the pigment between her fingers as if testing the consistency before bringing both hands up and pressing them into my cheeks, moving her fingers to stamp paint angels against my skin the way she did on that first night in the community center.
Her lips twitch. It's not a smile, but it's the ghost of one. The closest she can come right now. And it's enough to draw me forward, magnetized to her in the way the tide chases the moon.
She still has tears in her eyes, but they don't seem so lost when she drops her gaze to my lips.
I lean forward and kiss her. It's soft and tender, and apparently, not nearly enough for her because she slides her tongue into my mouth and wiggles closer on my lap. I can taste her tears as they slide down her cheeks and between our lips, but she doesn't stop kissing me. She wraps her arms around my neck, sliding her paint-covered hands into my hair. My hands fall to her ass beneath her oversized sweater. It's big enough to be a dress on her so I'm not surprised when my hands find her cotton underwear rather than shorts. I squeeze her ass, knead it, pull her even closer, and groan into her mouth when she licks my tongue before sucking on it.
Fuck, is this wrong?
This is wrong, right?
I pull back, but her hands in my hair don't let me get far and she reconnects our lips. One of her hands slides down my chest and when she tugs at the bottom of my hoodie, pulling it up, I lean back and let her undress me.
"Josie —"
She cuts me off with a kiss, her fingers already messing with my belt. When she gets to the button on my jeans she sits back on my lap and meets my cautious gaze. "Do you want this?"
"Do I want this?" I echo her question, dumbfounded. "I'd want this on my deathbed, Josie. I could be seconds away from taking my last breath and I'd use them to say yes to this. There will never be a situation where I don't want this." Her cheeks flush softly, the first bit of color I've seen in her face tonight. She undoes my button and moves to my zipper. I grab her hands, holding them in place. "But not if you don't want this."
"I do —"
"You're crying, Jo. You're overwhelmed, a lot's happened today. I just —"
"I want this." Her hands slip from my grasp, away from my zipper. "I want you. I want to feel close to you. I need to feel close to you. I need to feel —" she hesitates, cheeks warming. "When we're — I feel better. When you're —" She swallows hard, the look of absolute mortification has washed away the lingering sadness, and if I wasn't so fucking relieved that she finally has some color back in her cheeks, I'd smile at how intense her blush has become. "I just — you know what I mean."
I do know what she means. And fuck if it isn't the best thing she's ever said to me.
But I don't want to read between the lines of her confession. I want to hear her say it.
I smile like a jackass because she's not crying anymore, and her cheeks are on fucking fire and she's so goddamn beautiful it actually hurts to look at her. Swollen eyes, snotty nose, and all. "Say it."
"No." She tries to kiss me, but I swerve her.
"Say it or I won't fuck you."
She stills in my lap, jaw tensing. "Micah —"
I lean in and lick her neck. One long drag of my tongue that sends a shiver down her spine. She drops her head back, giving me full access to her throat, and when I suck on her pulse point, she moans. "Say it, Jos," I whisper.
"I feel safe," she breathes. "When you're inside me, I feel safe."
That's all it takes for me to haul her up the bed until her head drops onto the mass of pillows. She's pulling her sweater off as I kick my jeans and boxers across the fucking room, and when I climb over her again, all that's left are the tiny socks on her feet.
I could take my time with her. I could make her pant and whine and beg. I could make her body flush red hot; I could have her shaking under my tongue. I could have her hands in my hair while I bring her that all-consuming body high she's desperate for.
I could, but I won't, because as much as she wants me right now, I want her more.
And so I take her.
I slide into her easily, setting a slow tempo that has her moaning against my throat. It's her favorite kind of fuck — a slow fuck, a soft fuck, a delicate fuck. The kind of fuck that capitalizes on soft touches, on goosebumps trailing after fingertips, on fingers interlaced, and hickeys all over her tits. I can see the appeal. She writhes beneath me like a fucking cat sunning itself in a beam of midafternoon sun. It's a leisurely fuck. The kind of fuck that she begs for in the mornings before she even opens her eyes. The kind of fuck that has her clinging to me for the rest of the day, sucking on my neck and moaning into my mouth every time I kiss her. It's the kind of fuck that gets her off but not enough. It's the kind of fuck that turns her on for the rest of the day. The kind of fuck that always leads to my favorite kind of fuck.
And my favorite fuck is a hell of a lot...more.
I groan into her shoulder, biting down on her soft skin. She smells so goddamn good. So fucking good it drives me insane.
Her back arches off the bed, fingers threading through my hair. Hot, clipped pants fan my cheek, and then she's tugging at my hair, moaning against my lips as I fuck her a little harder.
With one hand on her throat, I kiss her deeply, messily, possessively.
I fuck her like she's mine, too. Fast, deep, rough.
I fuck her until she's flushed and glowing. I fuck her until the light in her eyes chases away the dark. I fuck her until she's clinging to my body, her lips pressed to my throat as she rides out her climax, her fingers gripping and pulling at my hair hard enough to fucking sting. I fuck her through my own climax, slowing my hips and finding her lips again.
And then I kiss her deeply, slowly, tenderly. I kiss her like she's mine to kiss — like she'll always be mine to kiss.
She's warm and pliant and relaxed beneath me, and as she presses gentle kisses across my face, I can't help but think that this is a form of comfort too. Being here together, offering shelter and safety in each other's bodies. This is a comfort only I can give her.
It's an instinctive solace — an intoxicating, meditative, fucking rapturous high.
The closest I'll ever get to a higher power is watching Josie come — and I plan on worshiping until my last breath.
She's glaring at me.
I don't need to look up, I can feel it.
I ignore it though, because I promised Josie I'd be on my best behavior, and telling her best friend to fuck off won't earn me many brownie points. So, instead, I focus on cutting these tiny ass strawberries.
My hair is dripping down my back, still damp from the shower — the shower Josie's still in. The shower she kicked me out of after the paint was washed away and told me to go help Halle in the kitchen.
"It'll make a good impression," she'd said. "You two can hang out and talk, bond without me! It'll be great."
Pushing me out of a post-sex shower to banish me to the kitchen with Blondie is the ultimate betrayal. One that she refused to acknowledge as she shut the shower curtain in my face.
"You're cutting those wrong."
My grip on the knife tightens. "Would you like to do it?"
"No, I'd like you to do it correctly."
"I didn't realize you could cut strawberries incorrectly."
"Neither did I, but it seems you've proven us both wrong."
I drop the knife on the cutting board and walk away. She doesn't say anything as she watches me round the kitchen island and pull open the refrigerator. It's stocked with fruits, vegetables, and rows of pre-made meals in Tupperware. The entire top shelf is lined with drinks — bottled water, sparkling water, Diet Coke, three different Capri-Sun flavors, protein shakes, and a few zero-sugar energy drinks. I stare at the selection, waiting for a beer to magically appear.
It doesn't. So I choose a bottled water and drop down on the stool at the bar top, safely away from the knife and Halle Anderson's blatant hatred of me. I consider her as she takes over the strawberry cutting. Her hair is glossy and falls in perfectly sculpted curls down her back. They aren't real curls, like Olivia's.
Glancing around the apartment, now washed in warm light from the kitchen light and lamps in the living room, my brows raise at the very obvious absence of my favorite roommate.
"Where's Olivia?"
Blondie doesn't look up from the cutting board. "It's Friday."
I stare at her, waiting for her to expand.
She doesn't. "And?"
"She spends the night at her parents' house on Fridays. Her and her mom catch up on all of their shows from the week."
I blink at that.
You couldn't pay me enough to spend an entire night hanging out with my mom. But, thinking back on all the times I've been around the Beck family, it's not surprising. Olivia's always been close with her mom. Always sitting on the kitchen counter while her mom bakes or cuddled up on the couch with her.
"So it's just us tonight," I surmise. "You, me, and Josie."
"Better company than you're used to, I'm sure." She pops a strawberry into her mouth and offers a half-assed smile.
I have a feeling that was a jab at Luke. But since it was on behalf of Olivia, I can't really defend him, so I ignore her instead.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my joggers — the joggers Josie pulled out of her closet, along with a freshly washed pair of boxers, socks, and a long-sleeved shirt. I never questioned where the clothes I left here ended up, but apparently, they have a drawer of their own.
I'm catching up on the team group chat when she finally breaks the silence.
"She likes you."
I glance up.
"I mean obviously you know that she likes you, you're her boyfriend, but she — she really, really likes you and I just —" She maneuvers the knife so lithely, each sharp drop of the blade cutting an identical slice. "I need to know that you know that she...likes you and that she's never...liked anyone like this before and now with this fucking atom bomb that's just dropped in her life she's going to be...fragile, emotionally, I mean, and she's going to look to you to be there and support her and help her and I just — I need to know that you're going to do that." She stops chopping, though her eyes never leave the cutting board. "I need to know that you understand what it means to be someone who Josie..." Loves, she doesn't say it, but I can hear it all the same. "And that you take that responsibility seriously. That you will put her first because she will always put you first. Even if she knows she shouldn't. Because that's how Josie is — it's how she's always been. She's selfless to a fault. She's kind, and soft, and sweet, and she would do anything for those she loves." She looks up, eyes meeting mine, unwavering. "So I need to know that you respect her enough to not take advantage of that part of her. I need to know that you care enough about her to care about her dreams, her life, her wellbeing the way she undoubtedly cares about yours."
The bathroom door opens, and we both look over at the hall at the sound of Josie's soft footsteps padding across the hall to her bedroom. When the click of her door echoes, I meet Halle's stare.
I rest my forearms on the bar top, considering her.
She's small and prim and annoying.
But she's right. And that annoys me even more.
"Looks like we're not so different after all, Blondie."
She narrows her eyes, waiting for me to expand. Waiting for me to plead my case. To convince her.
But I can't. Nothing I can say will convince her that I'm not an asshole. That I'm not going to hurt Josie again. That I'm not a selfish prick too concerned with my own life to care about hers.
So instead, I offer her the only thing I can. The only thing that matters.
"You can trust me with her. I know that's hard to believe now, but just — give me time."
She seems to genuinely consider that, looking up at me.
"I'm not going anywhere, as long as Josie wants me here, I'll be here. Just give me time and you'll see. I want...everything for her. She's —"
I hesitate, the telltale ache in my chest growing, tightening around my throat.
I swallow it down, though, because if there was ever a time to admit how I feel, it's now, staring down the barrel of her best friend's proverbial gun.
"She's everything."
Her eyes widen a little.
And I can see it then, the moment it snaps into place.
A single thread that connects us.
Her shoulders relax, a heavy breath falling from her lips.
And then she nods, choosing, albeit begrudgingly, to trust me.