Page 53 of Micah

Yeah.

She fucking does.

Just like a fairy princess from a story older than time.

Silence answers me.

Complete silence.

Her lips part just a little.

Those warm brown eyes somehow get even bigger.

I mentally bang my forehead against the hood of her van.

Not literally.

Because I'd rather she think I'm socially awkward than completely unhinged.

Smooth, Fiero.

Real fucking smooth.

Normal men buy flowers.

Normal men ask a woman out for coffee.

You perform preventative maintenance on her vehicle without permission because you noticed she coughed too much driving home.

Perfectly normal behavior.

Absolutely not bordering on obsessive.

Not at all.

Except...

It is.

And I know it.

I know watching her every night isn't normal.

Knowing what kind of oil her van takes isn't normal.

Ordering replacement filters because hers were filthy isn't normal.

None of it is.

But once I notice something that needs fixing, I just can't leave it broken.

Not when it belongs to her.

Because somewhere along the line taking care of Sloane stopped feeling like a choice.

It became instinct.

She still hasn't said anything.