Page 103 of Safe Place

“What? I got the lock fixed on my door.” She answers. She probably thinks she’s intruding. “I’ll just keep reminding Poppy to lock it when she goes out.”

“I don’t want you to be alone in that part of town if he shows up again,” I say, my voice rough. “But it’s not just that. I want you to move in with me.”

She looks at me, eyes wide, like she’s searching for the catch. Like this is too much. Like she doesn’t deserve any of it.

“I know you’re worried after what happened today,” she says. “But I’ll be fine. Really.”

God. She still thinks she has to prove she can survive on her own. That asking for help is a weakness. That she’s a burden. She doesn’t see it—how easy it is to love her.

“Sophie.” I shift closer, my hand curling around hers. “You and I—we’re it. Can’t you see that?”

She doesn't answer. She just stares at me.

“I’m not saying this because of what happened today. I’m saying this because I love you,” I say, my chest tightening. “I want to wake up with you every morning. I want to drive you to class, make you coffee, and kiss you before you walk out the door. I want to come home and find you here. I want to fall asleep knowing you’re safe—right here with me.”

I can tell she’s about to argue or put on her tough act.

“I live here,” I say gently. “I own this building. Wyatt lives here. If you’re not ready to live with me yet, I’ll get you and Poppy your own place here. We have security. You’ll never have to feel unsafe again. Just—” I pause, my voice breaking a little. “Please let me do this for you. Let me take care of you. Let me have some peace of mind.”

She still doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just stares down at our hands.

Then, finally, she nods. “I’ll talk to Poppy,” she murmurs. “Maybe she’d want to move in with Wyatt.”

Relief crashes through me, so strong it makes my chest ache.

“Thank you,” I breathe. “You have no idea what it means to me to just know you’ll be safe.”

And when she leans into me, tucking her face against my chest, I hold her like she’s everything. Because she is. And I swear to God, I’ll spend every day proving it.

Driving to campus with Sophie in my car, her hand in mine, is even better than I imagined it’d be.

I love the way her scent clings to the passenger seat. It’s like she’s marking the space with something only I get to know. I love how it lingers on my hoodie, on the collar of her coat, in the air long after she’s gone.

I love making her coffee in the morning. And watching her pad barefoot out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, looking like she belongs there.

I just love her.

And I love this—being with her. Like this.

“Micah, are you sure I don’t look weird?” she asks, tugging at the sleeves of my red sweater peeking out beneath her coat. Her fingers barely reach past the cuffs.

She spent the night again. She didn’t have anything clean, and her hoodie had too many coffee stains to pass. I gave her one of my sweaters to wear. It swallows her whole, but I’m not complaining.

“You look perfect,” I say, glancing over at her. “Just roll the sleeves up. You look so good in red, baby.”

I don’t have to look twice to know she’s blushing. Her cheeks are probably the same shade as the fabric.

“I can’t wait for you to move in,” I add. “To do this every day. This is domestic as hell, and I love it.”

“Me too,” she says, tucking her hands into her sleeves. “Your mattress is amazing.”

“And what else is amazing?”

“Your coffee?” she says, smirking. “Sooo good.”

I glance at her, raising a brow. “Mmm. And?”

“I think that’s it,” she says, laughing.