Page 57 of Safe Place

“Because it doesn’t change how I see you,” I say quietly. “Not even a little.” And before I can stop myself, I add, “I’m going to get rid of it for you.”

Her brows draw together. “H…how?”

I cup her cheek with one hand, wiping away the tears with my thumb. “Leave that to me,” I say softly.

I don’t know how yet, but I’ll figure it out. For her, I’ll find the best plastic surgeon in the world if I have to. Whatever it takes.

She’s curled up on the sofa beside me, wearing my T-shirt and sweatpants, both way too big on her, and somehow she’s never looked better. The ends of her hair are still clinging onto some water from her shower, her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a softness in her smile I haven’t seen before. She looks relaxed. Comfortable—like she belongs here.

I may or may not have put the washer on the longest spin cycle—Sanitize, close to two hours—just to keep her here longer. And I plan to do the same with the dryer cycle.

It feels natural having her here like this. Almost too natural. She laughs at something on the television, leaning into me every time she makes a little comment. Her shoulder brushes mine, her knee rests against my thigh, and every small touch has my chest tightening. But there’s also something else there—an awareness neither of us is acknowledging, a faint tension that hasn’t quite dissipated since earlier. Since that towel dropped. But regardless, I couldn’t tell you what’s happening on the screen if my life depended on it. I haven’t been able to look away from her once.

“Should we address the elephant in the room?” she asks as if she read my mind, her voice light but her cheeks already turning pink.

I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up in case it made her uncomfortable. “There’s no elephant,” I say easily, smirking.

She gives me a look, her face flushing tomato red. “Micah.”

“What?” I tease, pretending I don’t know what she means.

“Sorry,” she mutters, ducking her head.

“Why are you sorry?”

“You know why,” she mumbles, her voice quiet.

Now I’m having fun. “You mean because you flashed me?”

Her face burns crimson as she buries it against my shoulder, her hands fisting lightly in my shirt as if she could hide inside me. I don't have words for what that does to me. Just that it might be the best thing I've ever felt in my life.

“It was a nice view,” I add, and it’s the truth.

She groans, her voice muffled against me. “It was not. I’m sure you’ve seen much nicer.”

Something tugs in my chest at the thought. Sure, I’ve been with other girls before, but none of it ever mattered. It was empty—just passing time. Nothing like this.

“You’re different,” I say softly, every word meant for her. “Yeah, I’ve been with girls before, but I never had feelings. Not even close. And for what it’s worth, I haven’t been with anyone else since the day I met you.”

Her head lifts slightly, her big chocolate eyes searching mine. “Really?” she asks, her voice small, almost hopeful.

“Yeah,” My voice drops lower, more serious. “You’ve been on my mind since that day we got put in the same group.”

Her breath catches, and before I can say anything else, she leans in and kisses me first.

It's soft at first—hesitant, but the second she relaxes into me, I'm gone. I kiss her back, pulling her closer, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, the other finding her hip. The kiss deepens and slows, heavy with something we've both been holding back for weeks.

Then she climbs over me, swinging one leg over me, straddling me fully, her knees pressing into the sofa on either side. Her hands slide up my chest, gripping my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear, and I feel the warmth of her settle against me and something in my chest just cracks open.

Her fingers push into my hair. She kisses me harder, and I stop thinking entirely. Which, with Sophie, I'm starting to realize is the point.

My hands slide under the hem of her shirt, palms flat against warm skin, and she makes a soft sound against my mouth that I feel everywhere. She arches into me slightly, and I pull her closer without thinking, because I can't help it, because this is Sophie—who works three jobs and hides her scars and never asks for anything—letting herself want something. Letting it be me.

“Are you sure?” I murmur against her jaw, pulling back just enough to find her eyes.

“Yes,” she whispers. Her voice is shaky, but her eyes aren't.

I kiss her again, and we shift together until she's beneath me on the cushions, and I'm looking down at her—flushed cheeks, lips slightly swollen, hair loose around her face—and she's looking back at me like she's not afraid. Like she's actually, genuinely not afraid. I don't think she realizes what that does to me.