It was too intimate.
Too familiar.
And my mind immediately tried to do what it always did when intimacy got too close.
It tried to step back. To evaluate. To plan.
To protect.
But Micah’s voice rumbled against my hair, sleep-thick and low.
“You okay?” he murmured.
Notdid you like it.
Notare you hurt.
Just:you okay.
I swallowed around a sudden lump in my throat.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I am.”
He didn’t move for a moment, like he was listening for the truth beneath the words.
Then he shifted onto his side so he could see me better, his gaze scanning my face as if he could read my thoughts.
His eyes weren’t soft the way mine were.
His eyes were trained.
Even half-awake, he looked like he knew how to assess damage.
“How do you feel?” he asked quietly.
My cheeks heated.
I could’ve made a joke. I was decent at jokes. Humor was one of my favorite escape routes.
But something about him—something about the way he was watching me—made me want to be honest.
“Different,” I admitted. “But not … bad different.”
His expression flickered with something like relief, quickly buried.
“Good,” he said.
We held each other’s gaze in the quiet.
Downstairs, a bell chimed. Someone laughed. Life continued.
Micah’s eyes dropped—briefly—to my mouth, then back up, like he was trying not to let himself wander.
And then his jaw tightened.
Not with lust this time.
With responsibility.
