Page 78 of Safe Place

“Yes,” I whisper. “I'm sure.”

Something in his expression changes. It softens and steadies at the same time. He takes my hand and leads me toward his bedroom, and I follow—the most deliberate choice I've ever made.

We fall onto the bed together, clumsy and breathless, laughing quietly when I accidentally bump his jaw with my nose. But the laughter fades when his gray eyes meet mine—dark now, and completely still, like he's holding himself in place just to keep looking at me.

“We can stop,” he murmurs. “Anytime. Just say the word.”

“I know,” I say. “I don’t want to stop.”

He reaches over me. I hear the nightstand drawer, then the soft tear of a wrapper. When he looks at me again it's the same question it's always been, and I answer by pulling him back down.

He kisses me slowly, like we have all the time in the world. His hands move over me carefully, unhurried, pausing each time like he's giving me a chance to say no. I don't. Every layer he takes away he replaces with warmth—his mouth at my collarbone, his palm flat against my ribs, the slow drag of his fingers that makes me forget to be afraid. I keep waiting for some old fear to surface.

But it doesn't come.

What comes instead is something I don't have a name for. A warmth that starts low and spreads outward. A feeling like being held even when his hands aren't holding me. At one point I realize my hands are in his hair and that I put them there without thinking about it.

"Hey," he says softly, at some point. He pulls back just enough to look at my face. "Still here?"

"Still here," I say, and mean it.

"Good," he says. Then he kisses me again before moving with me, like he'd wait forever if that's what I needed.

He moves slowly, watching my face, and when I make a sound I don't expect—something small and surprised, but nothing to do with fear—his expression goes soft. He was waiting for me to feel it.

And then he does it again. And again. Until the sound isn't surprised anymore—until it's something I'm reaching for, something climbing in me that I don't try to hold back. It builds until there's no room left for thinking, only feeling, only him, and when it finally breaks, I hear myself breathlessly say his name. He holds me through it, forehead dropped to mine, breathing me in like he's been waiting his whole life just to watch me let go.

MICAH

Afterward, she's quiet.

Not closed-off quiet—I know the difference now. This is something else. She's lying beside me, cheek pressed against my chest, her breathing finally slow and even, and she hasn't moved in a while. I keep my hand moving in a steady pass along her back because it seems like the right thing to do and I'm not ready to stop touching her.

I've been with other girls. That's just a fact. But this is the first time I've been here—actually present, actually paying attention to another person—and the difference feels enormous. Embarrassingly enormous, honestly. I didn't know what I was missing until now.

She hasn't said anything, and I don't push. I just wait.

After a while, she tilts her head up to look at me. Her eyes are a little glassy, but she's almost smiling. “Hi,” she says softly.

“Hi.”

She lays her cheek back down on my chest. “I didn't know it could be like that.”

The words hit me somewhere I'm not entirely prepared for. I have to look at the ceiling for a second before I trust my face.

“Like what?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

She thinks about it. “Like…good,” she finally says. “And safe.”

I don't say anything. I just hold her tighter, pressing my lips to the top of her head, and she lets me, and for a while that's enough.

I think about everything Nico told me. About what her life looked like before she got here. About all the years she spent surviving something I can barely let myself think about directly.

She trusted me with this. With her. And I don't take that lightly. I don't think I ever could.

“Micah?” she says.

“Yeah.”