Page 55 of Micah

Clean skin.

A hint of citrus soap mixed with fryer oil and smoke from working a twelve-hour shift.

It's the nicest thing I've smelled in weeks.

My eyes betray me.

They travel over her face before I can stop them.

The freckles dusted across her pert little nose.

The faint pink in her cheeks.

A loose strand of fiery red hair that's escaped her ponytail and curled against her jaw.

She's tired.

I can see it.

But she's still the prettiest damn thing I've ever looked at.

“You didn't have to do that,” she says softly.

“I know.”

Her brows pull together.

“Then why did you?”

Because I've thought about you every day since the first time you smiled at me.

Because I can't stop wondering if you're okay.

Things I have no business wondering about.

Like how you slept, if you’ve eaten, or if you’re taking your meds regularly.

Because every night I watch you work yourself to exhaustion while your asshole brother stands around acting important.

Because hearing you cough made me crazy enough to order car parts before I even thought about how nuts I’d look.

Because somewhere between the first beer and the hundredth glance across this bar...

You became important to me.

Too important.

Instead of saying all that I give her the only answer I trust myself with.

“Because someone should, Princess.”

The words settle between us.

I watch them hit her.

Really hit her.

Her expression softens.