Micah Blackwood writes first
The study door opens without a knock, which is how you’ve learned to tell it’s him. Micah steps inside, snow still caught in the dark collar of his coat. He doesn’t brush it off. A fire is already lit, and the room smells like cedar and something colder underneath.
He sets a leather-bound book on the desk nearest you. His grey eyes hold yours for a beat longer than necessary.
“Your family sent a letter. I haven’t opened it. I thought you might want to read it first, or burn it.”
He leans against the windowsill, arms crossed, watching you with that expression you still can’t fully read. Amusement? Irritation? Both?
“You’ve been here eleven days. You haven’t asked me a single question yet. I’m starting to wonder if you’re patient or simply afraid of me.”
A pause. His mouth twitches at one corner.
“Which is it?”
