"No." The honesty escapes before I can stop it. "I'm scared, Micah. Scared we missed something. Scared Reeve will find us anyway. Scared that one of these missions will take you from me."
The words hang between us, raw and unguarded—everything I've been burying under protocol implementations and security assessments.
His expression shifts to understanding mixed with pain I recognize because I carry the same wound.
"I'm telling you..." he says quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You can't promise that." My fingers tighten around the glass until my knuckles ache. "You went dark for two years. I thought you were dead. I thought I'd lost you the same way I almost lost Gabe. And when you came back, all that grief turned into anger because anger was easier than admitting how terrified I was of losing you again."
"Sarah—"
"I can't do this." The water sloshes as my hands lose their grip. "I can't let myself need you again just to have you disappear. I can't survive that twice."
He takes the glass from my shaking fingers, sets it on the nightstand. Then he pulls me against him, arms wrapping around me with a steadiness that shatters the last of my control.
I cry. Not the angry tears from the analysis room when we tore at each other with need and rage. These are the tears I've been holding back. Grief and fear and exhaustion pouring out against his chest while he holds me and doesn't try to fix it with words.
"I'm here," he says finally, his voice raw. "Right here. Not going anywhere unless you physically throw me out, remember?"
"That's not fair." The words come out muffled against his shirt. "Using my own threats against me."
"Nothing about us is fair." His hand moves in slow circles on my back. "But I'm still here. Still choosing you. And I know you're choosing me back—you're just terrified to admit it."
I pull back enough to see his face, the exhaustion written in every line, the certainty in his eyes despite the fear I know he carries about abandonment and loss.
"I'm terrified," I admit.
"So am I." He brushes tears from my cheek with his thumb. "Terrified you'll decide I'm not worth the risk. Terrified I'll fuck this up again somehow. Terrified that what we're building can't survive the missions and the danger and all the ways this life tries to break people."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because terrified doesn't mean I stop trying." His thumb traces my jaw. "Because you're worth being scared for. Because the alternative—walking away, keeping safe distance, pretending we don't feel this—that's worse than any mission the Committee could throw at me."
The honesty in his voice opens something raw inside me. I become aware of how close we're sitting. How his hand cups my face with a tenderness that contrasts everything about the rough desperation in the analysis room.
"Micah." His name comes out broken.
He kisses me. Not the demanding possession from before. This kiss is gentle, questioning, giving me space to pull away if I need to.
I don't pull away.
I lean into him, let the kiss deepen, taste salt from my own tears on his lips. My hands find his shoulders, grip the fabric of his shirt like an anchor against the storm of emotion threatening to pull me under.
He shifts us carefully, lays me back against the pillows with a reverence that brings fresh tears. His weight presses down, solid and real and here in ways I stopped letting myself believe were possible.
"Tell me what you need," he says against my mouth.
"You." The admission costs everything. "Just you. Here. Real."
His kiss trails from my mouth to my jaw, following the tear-tracks down my cheek. "I'm real. I'm here. I'm yours if you'll have me."
The words unlock raw hunger inside me. I reach for him with unsteady hands, pull him closer even though he's already pressed against me. I need more. I need proof that this isn't another dream I'll wake from alone and grieving.
He seems to understand. His hands move with deliberate gentleness, peeling away my shirt. His palms replace the fabric, warm and calloused as they map my ribs, my stomach, the underside of my breasts. Every touch is careful, tender, nothing like the rough urgency that left bruises I wore like badges.
This is different. This is him showing me what we could be if I let myself trust it.
My bra disappears. Then his mouth is on my breast, tongue circling my nipple with patient attention that steals my breath. He takes his time, sucking gently, then harder when I arch into him. The sensation shoots straight between my thighs, has me squirming beneath his weight.
