He touched her face and wondered if the glow that lit her cheeks was his imagination. Her chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythms of sleep and he watched, transfixed. She was breathing. . .and her heart was beating. . .and no other sounds he'd ever heard were as beautiful.

For the first time in his short, generally shit-poor, life, Michael Guerin was completely, totally, overwhelmed.

Nothing else mattered. Nothing beyond this night. Nothing except warm skin. . .and moist kisses. . .and her short, trimmed, nails digging into his shoulders as he stared down into her haunting blue eyes and saw a thousand universes in their depths. . .as they conquered unexplored territory together.

He knew he could spend forever laying beside her. Inside her. But instead, he kicked away the sheets that had imprisoned his legs, gently tucking them closer around her slender form before he rose from the bed.

Her room was so normal. . .posters of rock bands. . .textbooks and trashy romances. . .old stuffed animals. He ran his fingers over each thing, feeling the touches she'd left behind. And their clothes were strewn on the carpet. A human space, an achingly human space with his $7 jeans and $2 t-shirt lying in a heap in the middle of it. What had he been thinking? He knew nothing about his alien physiology. . .what he might have exposed her to. . . what he'd brought into her giving, loving, human space. Here he was, the same guy who kept warning Max Evans about getting involved with someone like Liz Parker. . .and he'd ignored his own advice. Nero fiddling while Rome burned. Except he wasn't Nero. And this wasn't Rome. But he was a hypocrite nonetheless.

It had started as insults. Their usual. And then a fumbly, make-out session on the living room couch. More of their usual. All of a sudden, it hadn't been enough. Her hands. . .her hands had been everywhere. . .and her taste had just been addictive. . .so sweet. So unbelievably sweet. It was like the natural conclusion to some cosmic mating dance. . .no thoughts, no words. . . just sweeping her up and stumbling down the hallway. . .pulling her t-shirt over her head. . .tasting the hollow between her breasts as he unclasped her bra. . . listening to her gasp as he kissed the places where her pulse beat. It was like ascension. . .no, like falling. Falling straight out of the sky and crashing into something too glorious to be real.

He was selfish, arrogant, worthless, and, worst of all, inhuman. He'd had no right to make love to Maria DeLuca. So why? Why had he let this happen? When all that could come of it was tear and mascara tracks on her heart-shaped face and his own cool facade shattering as he walked away? He stood there, naked, in the center of the small bedroom. . .and felt like screaming.

But her heartbeat sped up and the sound never left his throat. He turned swiftly and there were those eyes. . .open. Innocent. So trusting.

"Michael?" she whispered, so pale against the white sheets. . .a question in her voice.

It was two steps to the door. And two steps back to her. There really was no choice. The tears would come eventually. . .but he was damned if he'd let it be tonight. Tonight was still sacred.

He mutely shook his head as he climbed back into bed, not trusting himself to say anything remotely sane as he pulled her against his chest and tucked her head beneath his chin. Instead he spoke to her with his hands stroking up and down her back. . .with kisses brushing her soft, tangled, hair. Much later, she spoke into his mouth.

"Michael, I love you."

And with those words filling him, he still couldn't scream.

The 'why.'

He held her close and fiddled again while Roswell burned.

"I love you, too."