Page 115 of Micah

A little embarrassment.

Maybe even a little vulnerability.

“I...” she says quietly, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the flannel. “I hope you don't mind. My clothes smelled like beer and smoke.”

I swallow hard.

Mind?

Christ.

I may never wash that shirt again.

Because the second she takes it off, I know it's going to smell like her.

And I'm not entirely convinced I'll survive that.

She stands there barefoot on the hardwood floor, damp red hair spilling over her shoulders, wearing one of my old flannels like it was made for her.

She doesn't know it, but she's standing in the middle of every dream I've had about her and this cabin since I started building it.

Not because she's wearing my shirt.

It’s because she's her and she is here.

In my home.

Safe.

Breathing.

Looking at me with those big brown eyes that somehow manage to make a former soldier forget how to string two coherent thoughts together.

“Borrow anything you want. Hell, you can keep it.”

She laughs, and the sound sends electricity spiking through my veins.

“I mean, you look sexy as fuck in my clothes, Princess,” I growl.

The words leave my mouth before my brain has any chance of stopping them.

Her eyes widen.

“I do?”

I nod once, then drag a hand over the back of my neck.

Jesus Christ.

Where the hell did that come from?

“You do.”

The corner of her mouth twitches upward.

“You're blushing.”

“I don't blush.”