Page 26 of Safe Place

He leans on the counter, eyeing me. “You can study here.”

I blink. “Here?”

“Yeah. Use the island. Wyatt studies here all the time—he says it helps him focus. Though honestly, it might just be an excuse to hang out with us.”

I look at the clean marble surface, my nearly empty cup of soda, and think about the thirty-minute trip back to my apartment. How I’ll have to pack up again, settle in, make tea, find my notes.

But here? I could just start.

“You want to study with me?” I ask.

He nods, smiling. “Sure.”

MICAH

Sophie’s been studying for over two hours now. She’s sitting across from me at the island counter, completely in her zone—brows furrowed, lips slightly parted, muttering softly under her breath as she taps her pen against her notes. She’s cute when she’s focused.

Meanwhile, I’m pretending to skim through my Managerial Economics textbook. I should be going through the papers my dad sent over—something about portfolio restructuring across The Vale Group’s holdings—but I keep pushing it back. Again. Because something’s wrong with me. I find myself glancing at her more than the damn page in front of me. I’m honestly shocked she hasn’t caught me staring yet.

She puts her book down and massages her temples with a sigh. I take that as my opening.

“You gonna tell me why you’re pushing yourself so hard while juggling three jobs?”

She pauses, glances at me like she’s debating whether or not to answer. “I’m on a scholarship. Westcliffe isn’t exactly easy to get into—especially not for someone like me. So I study hard. It’s the only reason I’ve made it this far.”

“If you’re on a scholarship, why do you need to work so much?” I ask. I’ve been fortunate enough to never have had any financial problems, so I’m genuinely curious how this all works.

“I’m saving up to support myself through law school. I know I’ll have to take out loans, but I’m hoping to cover the rest—rent, food, everything else. I probably won’t have time to work as much when I’m in law school full-time.”

I nod slowly, watching her closely. She’s overwhelmed—I can see it in the way her shoulders tense and her hands still nervously.

“Why law school?” I ask. “Don’t get me wrong—you’re smart as hell. I read your part of the group project. It was sharp and well-written.” I pause, watching her face. “But you don’t talk about law like it’s a passion or anything. It sounds more like a weight you're carrying, if you ask me.”

I regret it the second it leaves my mouth. Too blunt. Too much, too soon.

“Well, I didn't ask you,” she says.

“You're right. I'm sorry.” Yep. Crossed a line.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m just a bit overwhelmed.” There’s a beat of silence. Her voice is quieter when she continues. “It’s stable. It makes sense. People respect lawyers. Lawyers know how to protect themselves.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. “If I’m a lawyer, no one will be able to take advantage of me. No one will look down on me. People will think twice before trying anything.”

The way she says that last part—I feel it like a blow to the chest. I want to ask if there’s someone in her life making her feel like that right now. I want to know everything—who’s hurt her, who’s made her feel small. But I hold back. She’s finally opening up to me, and if I push too hard, I’ll lose that. Nico will get me the details anyway.

So instead, I say, “Okay, but let’s say you had all the money, stability, and safety. What would you want to do?”

She chews the inside of her cheek, then quietly says, “I’d write. I’d sit somewhere quiet, peaceful—like an emerald beach in Bora Bora—and just write.”

She reaches into the front pocket of her backpack again and pulls out that small, well-worn notebook she was writing in earlier. “I write in here whenever I can. It’s just for me—thoughts, feelings, things I don’t say out loud. It’s my non-judgy notebook.”

“You could tell me,” I offer, smiling at her very charmingly. “I wouldn’t judge.”

She gives me a look like I’ve just said the most out-of-touch thing imaginable. “Right. I’m sure you’re a nice guy, Micah, but no offense—you live in the penthouse of The Haven. I doubt we’re exactly dealing with the same set of problems—or even relatable ones, at that.”

That makes me laugh. “Hmm. Well look who’s judging now?”

She squints at me, amused but unconvinced. “Sorry, I just can’t wrap my head around it. Did you win the lottery or something? Seriously—what’s your story? You’re what, twenty? Twenty-one? And you live here? Alone?”

I shrug. “Twenty. And I guess I just got lucky.” Technically true. I was born into this family.