Then he paused, like he was remembering the question he’d asked earlier. Like responsibility still mattered.
“If you want,” he said quietly, “we can go to a pharmacy. Today.”
The fact that he said it calmly—like it was normal—made my chest ache.
Not because of the pharmacy.
Because of the care.
Because he wasn’t vanishing into shame or fear. He was staying.
He was offering solutions.
He was acting like there was a future to plan for.
“I don’t want you to think I’m … reckless,” I whispered.
Micah’s mouth tilted slightly again. “You invited a stranger into your home.”
I flushed. “That’s not?—”
“It is,” he said, and his eyes flickered with something like amusement. “But it wasn’t stupid.”
My heart kicked.
“It wasn’t?” I whispered.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “No. Because you knew what you were doing.”
I swallowed hard.
“And I did, too,” he added.
The way he said it made heat roll through me again, quick and familiar.
I wasn’t just awake.
I was hungry.
And that terrified me, because hunger made you honest in ways you couldn’t control.
Micah’s hand paused at my waist, his thumb pressing lightly like he was testing my reaction.
I didn’t pull away.
I didn’t tense.
I felt my body respond, immediate and traitorous, as if it recognized him the way it recognized sunlight and salt air.
Micah watched my face change and his eyes darkened—this time, unmistakably.
“Joy,” he murmured.
“Yes?”
His gaze held mine, steady and heavy.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
