Page 228 of Micah

She uses it, closes her eyes for a long second, and slowly her breathing begins to even out.

Better.

Not perfect.

Better.

That's enough for now.

I wait.

I don't rush her.

I don't ask questions.

She'll talk when she's ready.

Or she won't.

Either way, I've got her.

“Come on.”

My voice comes out softer than I knew I was capable of.

“Let's go home.”

Home.

The word slips out naturally.

Like there's only ever been one place she belongs.

Before she can protest—or insist she's fine—I slide one arm beneath her knees and another around her back and I swing her back up in my embrace. She weighs next to nothing.

The fact I was almost too late tonight?

Fuck. That thought freezes me in place for one second.

I am so damn angry, I’m shaking with it.

I’m so fucking mad.

At myself.

Not her.

Never her.

She's everything to me.

“Micah? Take me home,” she says and that settles the rage for now.

She doesn't argue.

Doesn't tell me she's too heavy.

Doesn't apologize.