"Bedroom," I manage.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He takes my hand and leads me down a short hallway to a room as spartan as the rest of his apartment. A bed with military corners. A nightstand with nothing on it. A window with blackout curtains that block the city lights.
I turn to face him in the dimness, suddenly nervous in a way I haven't been since I was too young to know better. This matters. He matters. And I'm about to cross a line we can't uncross.
Micah seems to sense my hesitation because he stops, hands gentle at my waist. "We don't have to?—"
"I want to." I reach up, frame his face with both hands. "I'm just scared."
"Of me?"
"Of how much I want this." Truth tastes like fear and hope mixed together. "Of what happens when you leave again and I'm waiting for you to come back."
"Sarah." He leans his forehead against mine. "I can't promise it'll ever be easy. I can't promise I won't deploy into situations where anything could happen. But I can promise I'll do everything possible to make it back to you."
"That might not be enough."
"I know." His grip tightens at my waist. "But it's all I've got."
I kiss him again, decision made. We can figure out the rest later. Right now I want this, want him, want to stop being careful and see what happens when we finally let go.
Micah responds immediately, deepening the kiss while his hands slide under my shirt. His palms are rough against my skin, callused from weapons training and tactical work, and I arch into the touch. He breaks the kiss long enough to pull my shirt over my head, then his follows, and I get my first real look at what I've only glimpsed in training photos.
Scars cover his torso—more than I expected, some old and faded, others relatively new. A bullet wound on his left shoulder. What looks like a knife slash across his ribs.
I trace the scar on his shoulder with tentative fingers. "Prague?"
"Tehran. Different op." He catches my hand, brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to my palm. "You don't have to?—"
"I want to know." I meet his gaze. "All of it. Everything you can tell me."
"Later." He guides me backward toward the bed. "Right now I want you."
We fall onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. I work his belt buckle while he deals with mybra, both of us moving with more urgency than grace. When we're finally skin to skin, he pauses.
"I need you to know something," Micah says, voice rough. "I'm clean. Got tested after my last deployment. But I don't have—" He stops, jaw tight. "I don't keep condoms here."
"You don't bring people here."
"No."
"Only me."
"Only you." His thumb traces my jawline. "But if you want to wait, if you want me to go get?—"
"I'm clean too," I interrupt. "And I have an IUD. Have had one for years." I pull him closer. "I don't want to wait, Micah. I want you. Now."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "You're sure."
"Very."
He kisses me again, slower this time, taking his time exploring my mouth while his hands map the rest of me. When he moves lower, trailing kisses down my throat to my collarbone, I arch into the sensation.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my skin.
