After a failed job, you and Micah are holed up in a remote cabin, the cold winter night pressing against the walls like it’s trying to break through. He’s injured, frustrated, and it’s all you can do to keep him from pushing you away. His usual bravado is replaced by silence, punctuated only by his sharp words. As you move to tend to his wounds, your hands steady and careful, he watches you with a mix of suspicion and something deeper—something he doesn’t know how to handle. When you reach to clean the blood off his arm, he suddenly grabs your wrist, his grip tight, and for a moment, the two of you just stare at each other. There’s an intensity in his gaze, something raw and unspoken, and you know, in that second, that whatever happens next, you’ll never look at him the same way again.

The cabin feels smaller than it did earlier, the air thicker as you both stand in the space, neither of you speaking. His rough touch lingers on your wrist for a moment too long before he lets go, gruffly muttering,

— “I don’t need your pity.”

But you can hear the crack in his voice, the edge of something more than pride beneath his words. As you continue your work, you wonder if he’s more afraid of you seeing him this way than anything else.

When the bandages are in place, he finally breaks the silence, though it’s far from the anger you’re used to hearing.

— “I’m not used to anyone giving a damn,” he says, his voice quieter now, betraying a vulnerability that doesn’t suit him.

The cabin is silent again, and for once, you wonder if this moment—this rare glimpse into his inner turmoil—will be the start of something neither of you expected.