Page 118 of Safe Place

I didn't have a good answer. At least not one that wasn't wrapped up in fear.

She was kind about it. Genuinely kind. She helped me map out a new plan, talked me through which credits would carry over, and told me that the writing program would be lucky to have me. I walked out of her office feeling lighter than I ever have.

It’s going to take some time to get used to the idea, but for the first time in forever, I'm not constantly worried about grades or expectations. Or saving up for law school.

I'm registering for new classes—Creative Writing, Modern Poetry, and even an elective about fairytales in literature.

I close the laptop on the course catalog before I can second guess any of it.

I’m lying on my stomach, laptop open in front of me, flipping between tabs and jotting down notes. The sheets beneath me are still warm from the dryer, and Micah’s hoodie is draped over my shoulders, the sleeves covering my hands completely. I’m wearing one of his oversized T-shirts while we wait for our laundry to finish its cycle. My feet are bare, my hair’s tossed up in a messy bun, and I’m getting used to feeling so content and perfectly at peace.

Then I hear the creak of the door behind me.

“Hey there,” Micah says casually. But when I turn around to glance at him, he’s not looking at my face.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, gray eyes locked on one very specific spot—my ass, still pantless while the dryer finishes up. Just his hoodie draped over me in his T-shirt, and black panties that leave very little to the imagination.

“Seriously?” I call out. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know I’m never recovering from this image.” His voice is dark with want. “You. Our bed. My hoodie. No pants. It’s like you’re trying to kill me.”

I smirk, kicking my feet up behind me. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being honest.” His footsteps are slow and measured as he approaches, like he’s holding himself back. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”

“I’m just updating my classes,” I tease, turning slightly to look at him. “Very innocent.”

He stops beside the bed, gaze dragging over every inch of me. “There’s nothing innocent about you right now.” He comes and leans down, one hand leaning on the mattress. “And I’m so close to forgetting how patient I’ve been.”

“Patient?” I echo, letting the word hang between us, thick with challenge.

He nods, eyes darkening. “So fucking patient. Watching you walk around in my clothes, climb into our bed, and I haven’t even touched you.”

I shift my hips slightly, feeling the tension ripple through him. “Then stop being patient,” I say softly.

“Jesus, Sophie,” he growls, dragging his palms over the backs of my thighs. “You have no idea what you just started.”

And the way he looks at me—like he’s about to devour me whole—I know I’m not getting out of this unwrecked.

The second his lips crash into mine, every ounce of restraint between us finally snaps.

THIRTY-FOUR

Sun-kissed and happy

MICAH

The sun is warm without being punishing, and the breeze is soft, brushing against my skin, reminding me that this—all of this—is real. The tide rolls in and out with slow, steady kisses against the white sand. It’s like time doesn’t exist here.

We’re in Bora Bora. It’s the dead of winter back home, but here, it’s paradise. Emerald waters. Private shoreline. Sky so blue it looks like a painting. I finally kept my promise and brought Sophie here. She’s curled up beside me on a beach towel, her skin glowing under the sun.

She’s reading a book, one hand resting absently on her thigh, the other lazily flipping the pages. Her hair’s pulled up in one of those soft, messy buns she thinks looks chaotic, but somehow it makes her look like she walked out of a goddamn perfume ad.

I’ve been staring at her for—yeah, at least an hour. Probably more. And I’m not even sorry.

She’s wearing the white swimsuit I got her—one of far too many I ordered, thinking I was being cute. Huge mistake. Every single one looks better than the last, and this one? This one should be illegal.

Thin white straps tie behind her neck, dipping into a tiny bikini top that barely covers her curves. The fabric clings tight, teasing the edge of a slip with every breath she takes. The bottoms are just as sinful—low-slung on her hips with narrow side ties that sit like whispers against her skin. The cut is daring, high on the leg and almost nothing in the back, offering only the illusion of coverage. In the sun, it’s almost as if the soft white against her pale skin turns translucent, showing flashes of skin that make it impossible to look away. The whole thing is so overwhelmingly beautiful on her body—like it’s made to be seen, not touched.