She doesn't know how when she fell asleep, or for how long. The last thing she remembers is sitting in the uncomfortable chair across from Michael's bed, watching his chest rise and fall. She remembers mentally noting that he'd stopped shaking and his blood pressure was near-normal again. She remembers thinking – vowing – that this would be the only way she'd think of Michael from now on – medically. Clinically. Coldly.
What wakes her is the scent of him. It permeates her dreamless sleep and causes her consciousness to kick in. Inhaling deeply her hazel eyes open to focus on an empty bed. The down duvet – which carries his scent so strongly – is draped over her. She sits up from her slumped position with a start, drops the duvet to the ground and heads for the doorway.
The house is silent beyond the bedroom. Silent and mostly dark except for the demonstrative dance of light and shadows from the living room. The kind of erratic light that can only come from a fire. She heads towards it, her eyes darting into the kitchen, the open bathroom and the empty dinning room in search of him as she goes.
He's in front of the fireplace. One hand on the mantle above. One dangling by his naked side. In the dim, dancing light she can make out little other than his shape and the variance of his skin tone – from flesh to ink and back again.
"Feeling better?" she asks him.
"Yes. Thank you."
The silence is deep, long and thick with unspoken thoughts.
Without turning he says. "I burned the syringe you treated me with. I don't want anything with your prints around. I don't want you to be involved in this."
Sara sighs. "I've been involved in this since you walked into my infirmary."
"It's not yours any more."
"No it's not, but it was and you chose to involve me when you lied to me about your diabetes." Sara says and takes a few short steps further into the room.
"Why did you leave Fox River?"
"I realized I wasn't making a difference. I was just a band-aid on an open wound. I didn't help anyone in there."
He turns now. She drinks in the inky darkness of his exposed chest and the feeling of his stare on her. "You made a difference in me."
"Yeah. Sure. My stupidity allowed you to use me in your plan. That's not exactly what I had in mind when I took the job on." Sara turns to the window, focusing on the tiny space where the curtains don't meet, trying to figure out how late it is.
"Don't confuse caring with stupidity," Michael tells her softly but firmly. He moves away from the fireplace and towards her slightly. "I needed to be in that infirmary. I needed to break my brother out of prison and I needed to see you," he says and he's only about a foot away now. She can clearly make out his features.
"I know. I was part of the plan."
"Yes. But you also weren't," he explains as his hand comes forward and brushes her shoulder on its way to the back of her neck. "Needing you on an emotional level was never part of the plan. Needing to touch your skin, your lips, that was never in the plan."
He kisses her and she lets him. Why do these dark moment make her feel so light? What the hell was wrong with her? When he breaks the kiss she steps away from him – out of reach - in order to regain her composure. She made promises to herself. She needed to at least try to keep them.
"Michael, it's been almost a year and you're still on the run." She reminds him like he'd forgotten. "You and your…. Friends haven't figured out a way to fix this yet?"
"It's complicated," Michael tells her. "I know I can't ask you to be with me. I – "
"You can but you won't," she blurts out and his words die in mid-air. For once his intenseness is replaced by confusion. "You don't trust me. You don't want me and more than anything you don't need me anymore. If you did, I'd be here. Like that woman is."
"Veronica?" Michael asks as his brain races to catch up. "She's Lincoln's…. lawyer."
Something in Sara relishes that information way too much. Still she holds on to her anger. He deserves it. She's wounded. "You come to me in the middle of the night – because you're worried. You make love to me and then disappear without another word for almost a year. You don't do that to people you need, Michael. But you did that to me."
She leaves the room and heads back to the bedroom where she collects her things. He's healthy. She's done her job. Now she can leave. Now she has to leave… before the tears start.
Turning back to the doorway of the bedroom she realizes he's right there. Almost on top of her. She stumbles backwards till her back lies flat against the wall.
"You should go," he says as his body moves to join hers. His bare skin against the soft cotton of her blouse makes her body tingle.
"I am going," she responds and try as she might, she can't keep her voice from breaking.
And she also can't move. Can't leave her position against the wall because he's still pressed into her, his long arms on either side of her. "It's because I need you," he whispers in her ear. "I need you to live a brilliant life. I need you to be safe and normal… and happy. That's why I left and didn't come back."
Sara reaches up and runs a cool hand down his cheek, over his exposed collarbone and down his bare chest. She lets it rest on his hip for a moment, which is clad only in a pair of jeans. "I can't be happy without you. I've tried and I can't do it."
His green eyes focus on her for a second before they close and he lowers his lips to hers.