Then he said, very quietly, “I don’t make children by accident.”
The words were blunt. Not cruel.
A boundary.
A confession.
My heart knocked hard against my ribs.
I nodded slowly, forcing myself not to shrink. “Okay.”
His jaw flexed, as if he expected me to argue.
But I didn’t.
Because I understood.
Because a man like Micah didn’t get to be careless. Not with bodies. Not with consequences. Not with life.
“And,” he added, voice rougher now, “if there’s a possibility, we’ll handle it.”
We.
The word hit me low in my chest.
Notyou will handle it.
Notdeal with it.
We.
My eyes stung.
I hated that, too—hated how quickly emotion rose when I felt held. Like my nervous system didn’t know what to do with steady.
“I’m not trying to trap you,” I whispered, because the fear was old and automatic and humiliating.
Micah’s expression flickered—something dark and protective.
“If you think that’s what I believe,” he said quietly, “then you don’t know me.”
I swallowed.
“I don’t,” I admitted. “Not really.”
He stared at me for a moment, then reached up and brushed his knuckles along my cheek, slow and careful.
“You’re right,” he said. “You don’t.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth again—brief, controlled.
Then back to my eyes.
“But you will.”
A shiver went through me.
Not fear.
