Page 117 of Safe Place

She's quiet, and I feel it then—the pressure building behind my eyes. The kind I haven't felt since I was a kid. I look away, jaw tight, staring at the steering wheel like it might help.

It doesn't.

“Micah.”

Her voice is soft. I feel her hand come up to my face before I can stop her, turning me gently toward her. Her thumb brushes just below my eye.

“Hey,” she says. Just that.

I let out a slow breath through my nose. “I keep thinking about what if,” I say, my voice rough. “What could've happened. What almost—“ I stop. Shake my head. “I had one job.”

“You had a lot of jobs,” she says quietly. “You've been carrying all of this for months. Alone.”

“That was my choice.”

“I know.” She doesn't move her hand. “But you're allowed to put it down now.”

Another silence.

“It's done now,” she says quietly. “He's gone. You're here. I'm okay.” She squeezes my hand once, firm and certain. “We're okay.”

And the way she says it—as a fact more than just reassurance—is the thing that finally loosens the knot in my chest.

She settles back against her seat, and for a moment we just sit in the quiet together.

Then she says, softly, “I don't even know how to thank you for everything.” Now she’s the one looking down at our joined hands. “Not just tonight. All of it. You dropped into my life and just—stayed. You made me feel like my life could actually be more than survival.” A small, fragile laugh. “Which is a lot to put on one person.”

I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “It's not much at all,” I say quietly, “when it's for you.” I pause. “Because I love you. A lot.”

She rolls her eyes, but that beautiful smile finally breaks through. “You really have no idea what you’ve done for me, do you?” she says softly. Her voice is quiet but certain. She leans in just a little, eyes locked on mine. “I can't believe you're all mine.”

And yeah—I'm gone.

THIRTY-THREE

Content and perfectly at peace

SOPHIE

The weeks after Silver Pine are quieter, happier, and so peaceful. I never would have thought this could be my life.

Mark is gone—likely heading back to prison in Illinois. Micah will make sure of it. My mother's number is blocked, and I will be changing my number soon. My scholarship is secure. For the first time in years, I feel like I'm able to live in the present without chasing a future I don't even want just to feel safe.

Living with Micah is…I don't have a word for it yet. Easy, maybe. Easier than I expected. He doesn't make me feel like a guest, doesn't make me feel like I owe him anything for being here. He gave me half his closet space—not that I’ve used it all up. He even filled the bathroom with more pink products.

He makes coffee every morning before I'm even fully awake. He drives me to campus even when it's out of his way and pretends it isn't. We fall asleep together and somehow his arm is always around me by the morning. He never comments on how long I spend in the shower after a hard shift, or how I leave my notes spread across his kitchen island, or how I reorganize his pantry because the way he had it made no sense.

I keep waiting for it to feel like too much. For him to get tired of me being here.

But he just keeps showing up. Every single morning. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.

And somewhere between the coffee and the drives and the kitchen island covered in my notes, I stopped waiting for it to fall apart. I stopped planning for the worst. For the first time, I let myself want something just because I can.

Which is probably why, on a Tuesday afternoon with nothing to lose, I walked into my academic advisor's office and changed my major to English.

My academic advisor did raise an eyebrow at first, which I very much expected. She pulled up my transcript, looked at my political science credits, and looked at me like I might be going through a quarter-life crisis. So I answered any questions before she could ask. I was prepared and brought in some of my poetry—pieces I'd written in the margins of textbooks and in the pages of my non-judgy notebook over the past two years, never intending for anyone to see them. I brought in the first three chapters of a story I'd started writing the summer before freshman year but never told a single person about. I sat across from her desk and let her read in silence, which was possibly the most terrifying five minutes of my life.

She looked up and said, “Why were you ever going to be a lawyer?”