"I think I can handle it," I say, standing to grab my overnight bag from the car. "I've seen you hangry plenty of times. How much worse can it be?"
"Famous last words," he mutters, but there's affection in it.
When I return with my things, Micah is in the kitchen making tea. The domestic normalcy of it—him moving around his space while I watch from the doorway—feels both familiar and entirely new. We've done this hundreds of times over the years, but never with this awareness humming between us.
"Chamomile," he says, holding up a mug. "Figured we could both use help sleeping."
I accept the tea gratefully, our fingers brushing as he hands it to me. The brief contact sends warmth racing up my arm, and I have to resist the urge to capture his hand and not let go.
"Thank you," I say, meaning more than just the tea.
We settle back on his couch, the space between us smaller now but still respectful. The tea is soothing, but it's Micah's presence that finally allows the tension I've been carrying to begin to ease.
"Can I ask you something?" he says after we've been sitting in comfortable silence.
"Anything."
"When did you know? Really know that what you felt was more than friendship?"
I consider the question seriously. "Honestly? About six months ago. You were sick with that flu that was going around the hospital, remember? You called me at two in the morning because your fever spiked and you were scared."
He nods, remembering.
"I drove over in my pajamas and stayed with you for three days. And when you were finally better, when I was getting ready to go home..." I pause, the memory still vivid. "You hugged me goodbye, and I didn't want to let go. Not because I was worried about you anymore, but because leaving you felt wrong in a way I couldn't explain."
"I remember that hug," Micah says softly. "I thought maybe..."
"What?"
"Nothing. It doesn't matter now."
"It matters to me."
He meets my eyes. "I thought maybe you felt it too. The way the hug lasted longer than normal, the way you looked at me when you finally pulled away. But then you went back to dating Sarah Morrison and I convinced myself I'd imagined it."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "I went out with Sarah because I was scared of what I felt for you. I thought if I tried harder with someone else, the feelings would go away."
"Did they?"
"No. If anything, they got stronger. Every date with her just reminded me that she wasn't you." I set down my empty mug. "I broke up with her two weeks later. Told myself it was because we weren't compatible, but really it was because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
We sit with that admission for a moment, the weight of missed opportunities and misunderstood signals.
"I should probably get some sleep," Micah says finally, though he doesn't move to get up. "Tomorrow's going to be..."
"Complicated?"
"Different," he settles on. "Everything's different now."
"But not bad different?"
He considers this. "Scary different. But maybe...hopefully different too."
I'll take hopefully different. It's more than I had any right to expect after what I put him through.
As we move toward getting ready for bed—him finding spare pillows, me grabbing clothes from my car—I feel lighter than I have in days. Not because everything's fixed, but because for the first time since I marked him, Micah is willing to let me try to earn back what I lost.
And that's exactly what I intend to do.