Chapter 22-Micah #2
Benji pulls in beside him a second later, slamming his truck door with entirely too much enthusiasm for this early in the morning.
One look at the matching grins on their faces tells me I'm about to regret every life choice that's brought me to this exact moment.
They both follow my gaze toward the cabin.
“Well,” Sawyer says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Looks like our girls are getting along.”
“Yeah,” Benji agrees, sniffing dramatically. “And something smells incredible.”
He points toward the cabin.
“I smell bacon.”
He sniffs again.
“Bagels.”
Another exaggerated inhale.
“And French vanilla creamer.”
I blink.
“You can smell creamer?”
“I'm a married man,” he says solemnly. “I've evolved.”
Sawyer deadpans, “He's been domesticated.”
Benji grins.
“Damn right.”
“Bullshit! Your wife texted you what she bought.”
“Maybe,” he replies, and starts toward my front porch.
“Where the hell do you think you're going?” I call after him.
He doesn't even slow down.
“Breakfast.”
“Who invited you?”
“Esme.”
“It's my cabin.”
“So?”
“So?”
He shrugs.
“Well now, his wife didn't invite me,” Sawyer says as he falls into step beside him. “But mine probably did.”
I glare at them both.
“Who invited you two pricks into my house?”
Benji looks genuinely offended.
“First of all, rude.”
Sawyer nods.
“Second, hospitality is important.”
“I'll show you hospitality.”
“You gonna feed us?”
“No.”
“You gonna make coffee?”
“No.”
“You gonna stop us?”
“Maybe.”
Benji laughs.
“I'd like to see you try.”
“I've literally seen you cry over a paper cut,” I remind him.
“It was deep.”
“It needed one Band-Aid.”
“It was traumatic.”
Sawyer snorts.
“You two sound like an old married couple.”
“Says the man who's whipped.”
“I am not whipped.”
“Lil Bit has your balls in her purse.”
“They're in her left pocket,” Sawyer says without missing a beat. “Next to my spare set of truck keys.”
Benji howls.
I shake my head.
Idiots.
Absolute fucking idiots.
The front door opens.
Everything else disappears.
Sloane steps onto the porch.
And she's wearing my T-shirt.
The sleeves hang almost to her elbows, and the hem brushes the tops of her thighs.
Her hair is clean now, loose around her shoulders, catching the morning sunlight until it looks like spun copper.
There's a coffee mug in one hand.
And a smile just for me.
Jesus Christ.
That smile.
It hits me square in the chest.
Not just because it's pretty.
Because it's real.
Relaxed.
Happy.
She looks at home.
And she spots me right away.
Her whole face lights up.
Not because she's trying to be nice or polite. But I think she might be genuinely happy to see me—and that?
That’s worth more than I have in the bank. The realization knocks the wind clean out of me.
There it is.
The answer I've been trying not to admit to myself.
I'm done for.
Completely.
Hopelessly.
Head over fucking heels for this woman.
Last night was incredible.
Not because we ended up in bed together.
Hell, that would've been enough for most men.
Not me.
This is different.
It has been for a while now.
It's not the shirt she's wearing.
Though seeing her in my clothes does things to me I don't have the vocabulary to explain.
It's not even that she's the prettiest woman I've ever seen.
She is.
But that's not it either.
Somewhere along the way...
She became the first person I look for.
I walk into a room, and my eyes find her before I know what they're doing.
I hear something funny, and she's the one I want to tell.
I solve a problem, and I wonder what she'd think.
Hell, I fixed the cryo system this morning and my first instinct was to get back here and see her.
Not check the diagnostics.
Not answer emails.
I needed to see her.
To check on her.
Make sure she’s safe, happy—here.
That ought to scare me.
Instead, it feels right.
I've spent most of my life watching.
Watching through rifle scopes.
Watching security feeds.
Watching lines of code scroll across computer screens.
Watching people from a distance because distance is safe.
Distance keeps you alive.
You don't get attached.
You don't get distracted.
You sure as hell don't hand somebody the power to wreck you.
Then Sloane walked into my life carrying trays of beer and smiling at strangers like the world hadn't already taken too much from her.
Now all I want is to stop watching. I want to stop being an onlooker in my own life.
I’m ready now.
I want in.
I want to sit around that kitchen table while Bit talks too loud and Esme laughs at Benji's dumb jokes.
I want barbecues and birthdays.
Sunday mornings and grocery runs.
I want to argue over paint colors and fix whatever breaks around the house.
I want a real life with her.
My Princess.
And yeah, I know what that means.
It means complicated.
Messy.
Loud.
Chaotic.
But I still want it.
All of it.
Not from behind a monitor.
Not through a camera lens.
Standing right in the middle of it.
With her.
The world's still a hard place.
I've seen too much to believe otherwise.
Bad people exist.
Bad days happen.
There isn't a damn thing I can do to change that.
But I can stand beside her when they come.
I can build something solid enough that she never has to face them alone again.
Maybe that's enough.
Maybe that's what love really is.
Not grand speeches. Not fairy tales.
Just showing up. Every single day. Doing the work. Making it real.
Choosing the same woman over and over until one of you stops breathing.
That's the kind of man I want to be.
The kind she deserves.
If she'll have me. And if I have to spend the next fifty years proving I'm worth trusting, I'll do it.
Gladly.
She steps out onto the porch wearing my T-shirt.
Her hair catches the morning sun.
She is still smiling when she looks at me.
Just me.
“Morning.”
One word.
One smile.
And just like that...
I know I’m right. Sloane belongs to me.
And I’m hers—wholly and completely.