"None. You?"
"Not even close." He kisses me, slow and deep, and I can feel him hardening against my hip. "We have time before you need to be anywhere?"
"A few hours."
"Good." His hand slides down my body, between my legs, finding me already wet. "Because I'm not finished with you yet."
This time is slower, less urgent. He takes his time exploring, learning what I like, what makes me moan. When I push him onto his back and settle between his legs, he watches with dark eyes as I take him in my mouth.
"Sarah." His hand tangles in my hair, not directing, simply holding on. "You don't have to?—"
I pull off long enough to look up at him. "I want to. Let me."
He groans when I take him deeper, the thick length of him heavy on my tongue. His hips flex despite obvious effort to stay still, and I can taste the salt of him, feel him throb against my palate. I pay attention to what makes his breathing change—when I swirl my tongue around the head, when I take him deep enough to feel him hit the back of my throat, when I hollow mycheeks and suck. His grip tightens in my hair, not directing but anchoring himself as he fights for control.
"Sarah, I'm—" His warning comes rough and desperate.
I know. I can feel him getting harder, thicker, the tension coiling through his body. When he tugs gently, trying to pull me up, I ignore him and keep going, taking him deeper, wanting to give him this. He comes with a broken sound that's half my name, half prayer, pulsing hot across my tongue. I swallow everything he gives me, working him through it until he's shuddering and oversensitive.
Afterward, we lie intertwined again, his hand still trembling slightly where it rests against my hip, neither of us ready to face whatever comes next. I can still taste him, feel the pleasant ache in my jaw, the evidence of sweat and sex drying on our skin. But eventually his phone buzzes with an incoming message, then another, and reality crashes back in.
Micah reads the messages with an expression I recognize from briefings. His face goes blank—operative receiving orders, shutting me out.
"Deployment timeline moved up," he says finally. "I leave in a few days."
The words hit like a punch. "A few days."
"Yeah." He sets the phone aside, pulls me closer. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize for doing your job." I press my face against his chest, breathing him in. "Just promise you'll come back."
"I'll do everything I can."
It's not the promise I want, but it's the only one he can give. I hold onto him and try not to think about how short our time suddenly feels, and how much longer the silence after will be.
Those few days disappear too fast. I call in sick to Fort Meade—food poisoning, I tell them, which isn't entirely a lie since I'm sick with the knowledge that he's leaving. We spend thetime mostly in his apartment, stealing every hour we can before reality pulls him away.
I drive him to Dulles in the pre-dawn darkness. His deployment starts with a commercial flight—first leg to a staging area somewhere, then the classified transport from there. I can't ask where. He wouldn't tell me even if I did.
At the terminal, we sit in the truck for a long moment, neither of us ready to say goodbye.
"I'll come back," he says finally.
"You better."
He kisses me one last time, then grabs his pack. I watch him walk through the sliding doors into the terminal, memorizing everything—the set of his shoulders, the way he looks back once before heading toward security, the exact shade of determination in his eyes when our gazes lock across the distance.
Then he's gone, and I'm left with nothing but silence and the ghost of his touch on my skin.
4
SARAH
Months pass in a blur of intercept analysis and operational briefings. I throw myself into tracking Committee communication patterns, building profiles of their network structure, identifying potential targets. The work keeps me busy during the day. At night I lie awake wondering where Micah is, if he's safe, if he's thinking about me.
No contact. No messages. Complete operational silence exactly as before.
I tell myself he's fine. Deep cover operatives go dark for extended periods. It's normal. Expected. Part of the job.
