Crush

Author's Note: A sweet, slow-burn romance. Nothing too wild--just lots of tension and feelings. Thanks for reading!

Ellie's had a crush on her best friend's roommate for three years. He doesn't do girlfriends, though, and she swore she wouldn't be just another girl. But when she ends up in his lap on movie night, saying no gets a lot harder.

They say crushes die fast, but it's been three years, and my heart still stutters when his eyes find mine.

Micah sprawls on the armchair, drinking from a half-finished beer as his gaze sweeps over my outfit. It's not much of one. Meg and I spent the day at the library studying for a test. My shirt's wrinkled, my braid's messy, and I bet my mascara's smudged at the corners from where I rubbed them earlier.

I sigh inwardly. I used to make such an effort when he first moved in with Meg. "I got a new roommate," Meg announced, grinning ear to ear. "Wait until you see him. He's cute."

Cute isn't what I would call him, though. Micah is handsome in a boyish sort of way. He's got warm, honey-brown eyes and a smile that lights up his whole face. He's sweet, smart, funny. Basically, everything I like in a guy.

But that's not him. Not all of him, anyway. Because I've seen him with his friends downtown, picking up girls like it's an Olympic sport. I've seen his dimples give way to cocky smirks just before he pulls girls in for a kiss.

I've seen him take them home--or, if he was in a mood--to the backseat of his car. Usually that mood meant his team lost a game, and he'd even the score by fucking one of the opposing team's cheerleaders. Petty? Absolutely. But it's not like the girls weren't happy to accommodate.

I've never seen him with the same girl twice, and when Meg asked him about it, he just said he doesn't date. "I'm in college," he had said. "Last thing I need is a girlfriend."

There was a trace of bitterness in his tone, but Meg didn't dig. And I would never ask. What would I say? Hey Micah, I've been sorta-kinda in love with you since that time three years ago when you stayed up all night to help me rework my entire essay so I wouldn't fail, and I was just wondering why that didn't make you fall head over heels for me too. Also, why don't you want a girlfriend? I'd be excellent at it!

I hate myself sometimes.

"Wanna join us?" Kev asks, glancing over his shoulder at us. Meg's analyzing the fridge's leftovers while I'm standing by the kitchen isle, trying to look anywhere but Micah.

Rowan grabs the remote and pauses their movie. "We're just five minutes in."

Micah's friends are crowded on the sofa, and the last thing I want is to squeeze in with them, spending the whole night pretending Micah doesn't get to me. Besides, they're watching Jaws, and I've seen that movie one too many times.

I give Meg a look that says as much, but she pretends not to notice. She thinks she's doing me a favor, getting me close to Micah and all. But it only makes it harder to move on.

"Sure!" she says. "As long as you share the pizza."

"Ordered extra," Micah says, grinning.

Meg beams. "Best roommate ever."

"I know."

Meg grabs my wrist and tugs me along. She plops down between Rowan and Kev. I'm about to squeeze into the narrow space between the armrest and Kev's linebacker bulk when I feel Micah's hands on my waist, pulling me into the armchair with him. My stomach lurches, and my pulse rockets.

"Micah!" I whisper-giggle, trying to mask nerves. "What are you doing?"

My voice's too high to be casual.

"Making space for you," he says, amused. "You should thank me. I can smell Kev from here."

"Fuck you, asshole."

Micah just chuckles. Meg sniffs at Kev, her nose flying up in a severe scrunch. "You smell like kebab."

Kev scoots away from her. "Stop snuffling me."

"Told you to skip the extra garlic sauce," Rowan says.

Kev flicks him off. I should make a joke, but I'm barely breathing.

Because despite what Micah said, he isn't actually making space for me. The armchair is big, sure--but not big enough to fit both of us without at least 30% of our bodies touching. More like 60% if you want to sit like a normal human and not a stiff doll perched on the edge, doing everything short of levitating to avoid contact.

And because the only thing more awkward than touching Micah is making a big deal out of not touching him, I relent. One of his legs is slung over the armrest, the other bent, which means my butt lands in that little triangle of space in his lap. One elbow rests on the opposite armrest, and the other... drapes over my waist.

I tell myself it's the most logical location for it to go, and that it means absolutely nothing.

"How did the studying go?" Micah asks me.

He speaks quietly, but his voice is strong next to my ear.

Rowan presses play again, and I'm glad Jaws is masking the sound of my thrashing heart. It feels like I've trapped a wild bird inside my chest.

"Okay," I answer. "You? How was practice?"

He shrugs. "Something's off with my leg, and Coach is onto me. I'm worried he'll pull me from the lineup."

I twist to look at him. "What do you mean, something's off? Did you see a doctor?"

He gives me a small grin.

"I'm serious," I say. "It could be serious."

His grin spreads. "That serious, huh?"

I roll my eyes, and Micah says, "Pretty sure I just pulled something at the gym."

"So then maybe sit out? Let it heal?"

"No way. I sit out, Coach benches me for the game against the Hawks. And that game's personal. I can't miss it."

I frown. "Aren't all your games personal?"

"This one's different."

"How?"

Micah hesitates. "Their captain and I went to high school together. We were tight for a while, then he turned into a total asshole. If I sit this one out, he'll--"

"Think you're scared?"

His face hardens. "I'd rather snap my leg in half."

As I try to figure out what went down between him and the Hawks' captain, Micah leans over me to grab a joint off the table.

The motion presses our hips together. My nerves spike, and I blurt, "Or you could just take one of his cheerleaders home."

I mean it as a joke, mostly. But Micah pauses before sitting back, lighting the joint and taking a long drag. Then he looks at me.

"That what you think I do?"

I swallow. "I mean... don't you?"

"One time, Ellie."

Ellie.

I always loved the way he says my name. Soft, like it's a secret just between us. It distracts me long enough for him to add, "The cheerleader, I mean. One time. You make it sound like it's a habit."

My eyes flick to the movie, then back to him. "You always leave with someone. That's what I meant."

My tone is light, but he watches me too closely. Then, in a grave tone, he asks, "Do you think I'm a slut, Ellie?"

My face burns like wildfire. "What? No! You're just, uh, very successful with women."

He grunts a laugh. "Case in point, right?"

"Right. Wait--what?" Does he mean me?

Micah takes another drag, his humor vanishing as he says, "Wouldn't work, anyway. He screwed my ex behind my back. They're still together. Pretty sure he doesn't care if I take the whole cheerleading team home. He won that game a long time ago."

"Oh." So that's why he won't date.

"Yeah."

"I don't know what to say. I'm sorry, Micah."

His gaze settles on the TV. "It's whatever. Not like I was gonna marry her. But Liam..." He scoffs. "Probably would've been best man."

He still won't look at me, and I don't know what I could say that wouldn't make it worse. Half of me is scared he'll shut down if I say the wrong thing. The other half wants to say something. Wants to keep this rare moment going. Wants to believe that him trusting me with this actually means something.

I open my mouth, but Micah beats me to it.

"He said it was an accident. Like that'd fly with me. Like I don't know how it works." He looks over at me, steady. "It's not an accident, Ellie. If a guy ever feeds you that, don't buy it. It's a choice."

I cock an eyebrow. "Are you giving me dating advice?"

He returns my smile. "Not saying you need it."

I laugh, nervous. "I probably do. My last and only boyfriend ran me over with his truck. I cried for weeks."

Micah looks at me like I just told him I'm pregnant with triplets and don't know the father.

"We were five," I clarify quickly. "It was a toy truck."

"Oh." Relief washes over his face. "Jesus, Ellie. Don't do that to me. I thought I was gonna have to send another asshole to the ER."

My eyes go wide. "You sent Liam to the ER?"

"Yeah," he says, off-hand. "Wait. What do you mean 'last and only'? You haven't had a boyfriend since kindergarten?"

"Nope. Why? Is that so bad?"

His gaze drops to space between my thighs, then snaps back up like he's been caught stealing. Oh my God. Does he think--?

"I saw that!" I half-whisper, half-yell.

I'm aware of the uncomfortable fact that we're not alone. I throw an apologetic glance at Meg, but she's grinning at me. Kev and Rowin are watching the movie. Or pretending to be.

Micah takes a slow drag of his joint. The sweet scent tickles my nose. "Saw what?" he says, feigning innocence.

"What, you think you can spot virginity through denim?"

At least he has the decency to look embarrassed. "It's none of my business."

"Exactly." Then I add, "Besides, I'm not. I've had sex."

Ugh. I can't believe those words left my mouth.

His mouth twitches. "Of course."

I mock-punch his shoulder. "Idiot."

His eyes turn to the TV. I wallow in the ensuing silence; the movie bores me, and I want to keep talking to him.

He's never been this open before.

"Where does it hurt?" I ask quietly.

"What?"

"Your leg."

"Oh." Looking down, he stretches his right leg and points at a spot mid-thigh.

I'm not sure what compels me to reach out, maybe insanity, but here I am, touching that exact spot. "Here?"

He nods.

My fingers move of their own accord, gently massaging his muscle through the hard fabric of his jeans. I don't dare meet his eyes when I say, "Does that help?"

He doesn't answer for a long time. I hold my breath.

Eventually, he says, "Yeah." His voice is just a soft ghost against my neck.

He relaxes into the armchair and closes his eyes to savor the sensation. I don't know what I'm doing; I'm not a physical therapist. But his expression tells me I'm doing something right.

And his arm tightening around me tells me I'm skating too close to a mistake. He doesn't date. I don't hook up. Not with men I'm in love with, anyway. This can only end with my heart crushed.

Micah winces, and I realize I'm pressing too hard. "Sorry."

His honey-brown eyes fix on me, nearly black in the dim light. "It's good when it hurts," he says. "Means you're in the right spot."

I really hope he's talking about muscles, not hearts. Except the heart is a muscle. He's not talking about hearts, is he? God, I'm clearly losing my mind.

It's his hand.

His damn hand, which has somehow made its way under the hem of my shirt. No idea if it's by chance or design, but his fingertips are warm against my spine. A hot wave rolls through me, something flutters low in my stomach, and my lips part like I'm about to vocalize the whole thing out loud.

"How much?" he asks.

"What?"

"Sex."

I look him in the eyes. BIG MISTAKE. Whatever expression I'm making clearly entertains him.

"I'm just curious," he says. "You don't have to answer. You just don't strike me as the casual type."

I'm not, which he knows. Which means he's probably assuming I'm inexperienced, and now he's just fishing for confirmation.

"Is this a trick question?" I ask.

His brows lift. "The trick being?"

I shrug. "We both know it's a stupid question. If the number's too high, the girl's easy. If it's too low, she's prude."

"Nah, it's not a stupid question. It tells you what kind of energy someone's bringing. Where to meet them. Besides, I asked how much, not how many."

Right. And why do you care about my energy? I want to know but I don't ask. The answer will disappoint either way.

I consider his question again and finally bring myself to answer. "Not much," I admit. And because I want us to be on even ground: "You?"

"More than that."

I roll my eyes, and he chuckles. There's nothing funny in the way he looks at me.

I swallow. "We should probably watch the movie at some point."

"Yeah."

I twist toward the TV. Micah's hand slips from my back, only to settle on my front. His fingers splay across my stomach, easily spanning my waist. One fingertip grazes dangerously close to my bra. My heart nearly launches out of my chest.

It feels so good. It also terrifies me, because I don't know what it means, and I'm too chicken to demand an answer.

"You're okay, Ellie."

Just a whisper in my ear. It has the unexpected effect of calming me enough to finally relax.

We watch the movie. Boredom gnaws at me not fifteen minutes later. Under normal circumstances, I would've gone home. But I'm in Micah's arms, and I can't let go yet.

Another ten minutes and my eyelids start to droop. I try to fight sleep, but I'm warm, comfortable--and he said I'm okay, so I am. I trust him.

Sleep claims me. It's not nothingness. I'm not gone. It feels like those early-morning moments, when you're not quite awake and not quite sure if your alarm has gone off. When you check your phone in a panic, thinking you've overslept--only to find you still have one more hour to sink back into bed. That's what this feels like.

I'm sleeping, but I feel the solid line of his body pressing against mine. I hear his soft breaths. I stir every once in a while when the movie gets loud, and I relish each time--because it reminds me that he's still here. And because I get to feel him holding me a little more tightly, like he worries I'll run off if he doesn't.

I've never just cuddled with a guy. A pang of envy stabs me right in the chest. So that's what having a boyfriend is like. I suddenly feel like I've missed out. Like maybe I should've given Tim a chance in high school, even though he was rude and always smelled like butter.

No.

I couldn't have let Tim hold me like this. It wouldn't have been the same.

Still, the envy lingers. I want this.

Fear creeps in that I might not get to feel it again anytime soon. So I take my chance, using the cover of sleep to nuzzle closer. I'm sleeping. That's near death, basically. I can't be held accountable.

I keep my eyes shut as I shift toward Micah, pressing into him, burying my face in the crook between his chest and arm. He smells amazing. Like fresh laundry left out to dry in the sun.

Maybe that's what he did with his shirt. They don't have a dryer, and the little balcony faces South.

His hand slides to the back of my head, holding me against him. It feels protective. Safe in this little bubble he's created. The rational part of my brain tells me to knock it off. For all I know, it's just a move to get into my pants.

Some guys do this. I know they do.

I know it as well as I know that girls will believe almost anything if it makes them feel special. I guess that's how we're wired--wanting to feel safe and chosen. We want it so badly, we risk being wrong just for the chance that maybe we're right.

"Fucking a pretty woman who's also smart and funny is like eating a premium burger," some drunk guy once told me at a party. "It's better, yeah. But you don't need it. Almost any burger will do if you're hungry. And half-expired ones are way cheaper."

I feel sick remembering that. No idea why it popped into my head now.

"I'm heading out." That's Rowan.

"Me too," Kev adds. "Is she sleeping?"

"Yeah," Micah answers quietly, pulling me in a little closer.

There's rustling. They're getting up.

"I don't think I've ever seen her make it through a whole movie," Rowan says.

"Maybe that's your fault," Meg shoots back. "You pick the worst movies."

Rowan snorts. "Then you pick one next time."

"Careful, because I will. Ever heard of Pride and Prejudice?"

"Yeah. That's the one where the guy's hand spasms, right? My ex made me watch that shit."

Meg gasps. "It's not shit!"

This would be the perfect moment to wake up. I could slip out with the others, brush past this whole awkward scene in sixty seconds or less.

I'm still debating when I hear the door close. Silence reigns the apartment.

"What?" Micah says.

"You gonna sit here all night like this?" Meg asks.

"No?"

"Okay, then wake her up. It's late, and she's here by bike."

Ugh. Thanks for the reminder.

"I'm not letting her bike home in the dark. She can stay here."

"Here where?" Meg's voice goes sharp, quieter. "I'm not gonna let you take advantage of my friend."

"Right. 'Cause that's me."

"Sorry, I just-- Ellie's special."

Aww. Meg.

"Yeah, I know."

WHAT?

He knows?

Silence.

Then Micah says, "She can have my bed. I'll take the couch."

Another pause. My heart's pounding so hard, I'm afraid they can hear it.

"She really likes you, Micah," Meg whispers.

God. That traitor. I'm glad I'm "asleep" for this. Dead would be better, though.

"And if you fuck this up, she's not gonna want to come over anymore. And she's my best friend. So you're gonna have to move out."

I don't know if I want to thank Meg or kill her again. She's BFF-ing hard right now. She's also scaring him off.

"You're one hell of a friend," Micah says. Calm. Not even a little scared.

"Really?" Meg sounds genuinely flattered. "Thanks."

"Yeah, really. Now fuck off."

Meg grunts, mutters something under her breath, and a second later, I hear her door click shut.

Micah doesn't move. Just sinks back into the armchair like he's not ready for this to be over either.

He must be uncomfortable by now. My leg is going numb, and his arm probably is too. I wish we could teleport straight to his bed, keeping this going without having to make sense of any of it so soon.

I don't know how much time passes--maybe five minutes--before Micah sighs. Sliding his arm under my legs, he rises with me in his arms.

I'm wide awake now and starting to feel bad for pretending otherwise. Opening my eyes and staring up at him feels far worse, however, so I play along.

He nudges the door to his room open. Darkness cloaks us. My body sinks into the mattrass, and the second he lets go, I feel exposed. I imagine him looking down at me, at my tangled hair and smudged makeup, and realizing I'm not quite so special after all.

That I'm actually quite ordinary.

"Ellie," he whispers. "You awake?"

I fake a stir before opening my eyes. He's crouched beside the bed, eye-level. "Yeah?"

"You passed out," he says, gentle. "You're in my bed. I'll take the couch, alright? Just didn't want you waking up and freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," I blurt too fast.

He laughs under his breath. "Sure."

"You should take the bed," I say. "It's yours."

"No chance. I'm a gentleman."

I snort. "The only gentle thing about you is..." I trail off. He's looking at me like he already knows the ending. "... your dimples," I finish.

His brows lift. Then he smiles, dimples included. I reach out, touching one with my finger. He catches my wrist mid-motion. My heart stumbles.

"Is my makeup smudged?" I ask.

His gaze drifts across my face. "Yeah."

Frowning, I say, "Sometimes it's okay to lie, you know?"

"You can't build trust with lies." He leans a little closer. "Besides, it's not bad. Kinda looks like you had a wild night."

"Well, I didn't."

I expect something cocky. Not yet, or Give it five minutes. Instead, he swipes a thumb under my eye, supposedly to remove aforementioned smudging.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" I ask. Because it's totally working, and I babble when I get nervous.

He grins. "Ellie. If I were trying to seduce you, you'd notice."

"I don't think so. I'm--"

His grip shifts from my wrist to my fingers. He takes one gently, and without breaking eye contact, wraps his lips around the tip. A slow flick of his tongue. Hot and wet and over before I can even process it.

He lets go and says, "Notice anything?"

"Nothing," I say sweetly. "Was there leftover honey on my finger?"

"Uh-huh. Any other places you want me to check for leftover honey?"

I hesitate. He waits.

This is a mistake, some voice in my head warns. It's gonna feel good now, and tomorrow you'll do the world's longest walk--no, bike--of shame and avoid his eyes for the rest of your life. He's not dating. He hasn't said he wants more. You're gonna cry and--

"Yeah," I hear myself say. "Here."

I point to my neck. I should've gone for my mouth, but I lack the courage for that kind of boldness. The neck feels safer.

I'm about to find out how wrong I am.

The biggest sign is that Micah's smile vanishes. His serious face is hot, but infinitely more intimidating.

He stands, towering over me for a second before sitting beside me on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. His eyes flick to my throat. His hand follows. It settles at the base, above my collarbones. A thumb moves to my chin, gently tugging my face to the side to bare the length of my neck.

He taps the sensitive skin over my pulse. "Here?" he asks.

"Yes." It's a breath, not a word.

He leans down and I'm grateful he's not looking at me. I hold still, heart trembling, as I wait for his mouth to touch my neck.

His breath ghosts my skin. Then his lips press against my pulse. It's gentle. PG-13. Except it sets me on fire.

A sound escapes me. I don't recognize it, but tomorrow I'll learn from Meg that it sounded like a "tragic whimper."

Tragic whimpers seem to work for Micah, though. He makes a nondescript grunt, the vibrations of it tickling my skin. Then his arm slides under my back and lifts me into him, my spine arching.

I'm like the willing victim in a vampire's arms.

He kisses my neck with more pressure. I slide my fingers through his hair, making more of those tragic whimpers. He nips at my skin, and I tug at his hair. I need him to start doing to my mouth what he's doing to my neck.

He resists me, like he's not quite finished there, so I tug a bit harder, forcing his lips to meet mine. As soon as they do, he devours me. His mouth crashes against mine. Soft. Warm. He coaxes me into opening for him. I surrender willingly. His tongue slips inside and dances with mine.

He tastes like weed and beer and mint. Micah likes to put mint in his water.

I love that I know that.

"Micah?"

He pauses and looks at me.

"I'm not really... prepared."

Confusion flashes in his eyes. "Prepared?"

I hope my cheeks aren't as red as they feel. "I obviously didn't expect this to happen, so I didn't... you know."

"No."

"Shave."

He grunts a laugh. I must look stricken, because his features soften immediately.

"I don't really care," he says.

"Yes, you do."

"Ellie," he says. "I don't care about hair as long as it's not in my mouth. You get me?"

In his mouth? Oh.

"You look genuinely disappointed." A grin, half-amused, half-dangerous. "You want me to eat you out, baby? I doubt it's as bad as you make it sound."

WHAT. DID. HE. JUST. SAY.

His hand journeys down my stomach as if he's about to check for himself. I squeak like a piglet. He must love it because his mouth collides with mine again, hungry.

Micah works open my button. One rip of a zipper and I feel his finger slip under my panties. He's rough about it--impatient. He strokes over me just once before pushing inside.

Oh my God.

My kisses stall in favor of soft moans. He groans when his finger meets no resistance, and he immediately adds a second one. The denim makes everything feel tighter and way more forbidden.

I grab the hem of his shirt and try yanking it over his head. He's not helping, and I want this thing off him.

"Micah," I protest.

He stops. Looks at me.

I smile at the alarm in his eyes. "Your shirt," I say, tugging at it to demonstrate my predicament.

He sits up and I covet the confidence with which he strips his shirt off. No hesitation whatsoever.

Is that a guy thing? Or a hot guy thing?

My hand settles on his stomach. He feels solid and warm. Surreal, somehow. I've been crushing on him for three years, but this is the first time I get to see him like that. It's not the same when he's on the field, one bare chest among many. This is different. It's up close and just for me.

And for about ten other girls he took home, but I stuff that thought into a deep, dark box in my mind.

I glance up and realize he's been watching me touch him. Like he's standing trial in my hands, waiting for a verdict. I want to tell him he's beautiful, but it seems too sappy.

"You look amazing," I say.

"Yeah?" It lands just shy of cocky. He cares what I think.

I nod. "Very amazing."

He smiles. "Come here," he says softly.

Before the words even settle, he's tugging my jeans down my legs. They land on the floor. He ignores my shirt. Maybe he can tell I'm not ready to lose the last bit of cover.

"Beautiful," he says.

His hand slides over my thigh but then pauses, like he's debating something. He meets my eyes, perhaps searching for a green light.

I speak first. "I wa--"

"We're not gonna fuck."

I blink, confused. "We're not?"

"No."

There's no room for disappointment in me. The rejection stings far worse.

"I don't mean it like that, Ellie. I want to, believe me."

"Yeah. Sounds like it."

He pulls my hand between his legs. He's rock-hard.

"Feels like it too," he says.

"So why?"

"Because you take things slow with a girl you like," he says, matter of fact. It might as well be the law.

Giddy excitement propels me up. "You like me?"

He gives me his dimple-perfect smile. "Always have."

"Really?" I sound like a kid who's just been told she's going to Disneyland.

Micah's answer is a kiss. It's slow, soft, and it breaks me in the best way. His lips hunt mine, then nibble on my bottom one like he craves a taste. I grab at his neck, wild, trying to basically climb into his lap. I'm not interested in slow. Three years is enough of that.

The grin against my mouth is diabolic. He takes my scuffling like a patient alpha humoring his pup. Must be nice, that kind of power. The confidence of knowing you can stop things whenever you want.

It thrills me.

Most men make me walk home with pepper spray and my phone clutched like a knife. Micah makes me feel like I could shoot him, and he'd still be more worried about me.

Nothing sexier than that.

I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging a little harder, and he cups me through my underwear. His kiss swallows my gasp--and the next, when two fingers push inside me.

His thrusts are deep and fast, stretching me. All they do is make me wish for the real thing, but he seems determined not to give in.

"Damn, Ellie," he says. "You're soaked."

I moan, and he finally stops torturing me. His fingers ease out, settling over my clit instead. The strokes there are slow, but the pace is steady.

My release builds fast, and I wonder if he'd sleep with me if I begged.

Then he says, "I thought about fucking you every time I saw you for three years."

Jesus.

I close my eyes as I explode. My thighs tremble, then squeeze shut, trapping his hand between them. "Oh God..."

Micah lies next to me and wraps me in his arms.

I try to process what just happened as my breathing calms. A wave of doubt washes over me almost immediately.

What does this mean? What happens now?

"What about you?" I ask quietly, facing him in the dark. Our noses are just a hand's width apart.

"I can wait."

"But--"

"I want to wait," he clarifies, firm. "That okay?"

"Yeah." Smiling, I add, "Thank you."

Surprise lifts his eyebrows. "For?"

"You know..." My eyes dart away. "Just now. It was really nice. Is it weird that I'm saying thank you?" The last bit comes out in a rushed spill.

Micah chuckles. "Not weird. New. Never had a girl thank me before."

Which makes me weird. "Hm," I murmur, hoping the dark hides my embarrassment.

Silence settles over us, and I think he's fallen asleep when his voice fills the space.

"Ellie?"

My heart pounds. "Yes?"

"Wanna come to my game next week?"

"I always go to the games."

"No. I mean..." He pauses. "As my girl."

I smile so hard. If an orgasm is heat and thrill, this is warmth and safety. I'm about to tell him yes when something else slips out instead: "You can't play, Micah. You're injured."

He laughs softly, kissing my shoulder.

"Sounds like something my girl would say."