Page 3 of Safe Place

What the fuck?

I catch Sweatshirt Girl freeze mid-pour. Her shoulders tense. Eyes flick wide.

“Kidding,” the guy adds quickly, trying to backpedal. “She’s just cute. That’s all. Just the americano and the madeleine.”

The asshole then has the nerve to walk over to her—fuck, what was her name again?—and starts saying something I can’t quite hear from where I'm standing. But I can see it’s making Sweatshirt Girl very uncomfortable—no, she looks fucking terrified.

SOPHIE

The line moves, and I keep my head down, focus tight on the steam wand, trying not to panic.

“Hey.”

I don’t look up.

“Hey,” the voice repeats, closer now.

He’s come around the side of the counter.

“Didn’t mean to make you all jumpy.” His eyes rake over me. “Just wanted to say—you’ve got a real delicate vibe. Kind of like someone who needs looking after.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean? I step back slightly. Not much. Just a half-step, trying to remain unaffected. But he leans in further.

“You always this quiet?” he murmurs, head tilting like he’s trying to look up under my lowered lashes. “That hoodie’s cute on you. But I bet you’d look better in nothing but my T-shirt.”

My mouth goes dry. I freeze.

“Don’t be shy,” he says, his voice dipping low. “I’m not trying to be a creep. I just think we’d be a good fit. The quiet ones are always the most wild. If you know what I mean?”

The sound of blood rushing in my ears nearly drowns everything out. My breathing shortens. My grip tightens around the portafilter until it hurts. I can’t move. I can't speak. Everything inside me starts to close down, like it used to. Like it learned to.

He lowers his voice even more, words nearly grazing my skin. “Tell me what time you’re off, and I’ll be waiting. We’ll keep it just between us. You can trust me.” His fingers brush the edge of the counter near mine. Too close. I’m hoping Liam, my coworker will step in and help me, but I know he’s occupied at the register.

“Baby, is everything okay?” I hear in a comforting, slightly familiar voice. I know this voice. I heard it earlier.

I look up like I’ve been snapped out of a trance, and it’s him. Micah. His eyes are first on me, full of worry, and then suddenly lock on the guy across from me. “What the fuck is going on here?”

The guy stutters a step back. The sleaze drains from his face the second he sees Micah—like someone turned off a switch. “Hey—hey man, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. My bad.”

Micah’s voice goes flat and dangerous. “My bad?”

“Sorry, man.”

“Not to me,” Micah snaps. “To my girlfriend, you asshole.”

The guy blinks. He looks at me. Then back at Micah. His jaw works like he wants to argue, but something in Micah’s face makes him think better of it. Micah’s a good couple inches taller, and a hell of a lot more built than he is.

“I didn’t do anything. God forbid someone tries to make a new friend,” he mutters, eyes sweeping over me one last time. “You’ll warm up eventually. They always do. I have that effect on girls like you.”

Something inside me shuts down completely. My breath catches. That line—those words—they land hard. Like a memory. Like a bruise that hasn’t faded.

Before I can blink, Micah steps forward. Quick, sharp—his jaw tight, fists clenched like he’s two seconds from breaking the guy’s face in half.

The guy jolts toward the exit, looking at me one last time before he’s out the door.

I reach out on instinct, hand wrapping around Micah’s forearm before he can follow. And he looks like he’s about to. He’s solid and burning under my fingers.

“Please,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Don’t. It’s not worth it.”