Page 32 of Safe Place

“Oh my God,” she mutters, tugging at the zipper. “I forgot I had this. Here, I’ll give it back⁠⁠—”

I reach out, catching her wrist gently before she can peel it off. The touch is fleeting—just the brush of my fingers against her skin. Her hand is soft, delicate, though a bit cold. She looks up at me, lips parted. And this view does something to me I don’t quite understand.

“Don’t,” I say, voice lower now. “It suits you.” I let a beat pass, holding her gaze. “And I kind of like seeing you in it.”

Her cheeks flush a shade pinker than the morning chill can account for. She swallows, tugging lightly against my hold, but I don’t let go just yet.

I tilt my head, pretending at nonchalance. “Careful though, Soph. People might start thinking we’re a thing if you keep wearing my clothes.”

That earns me an eye roll, though the smile on her face betrays her. “Literally no one will think that, Micah.”

“You don’t know that.” I finally release her wrist, letting my hand fall back to my side. “But I’m serious. Don’t give it back. I want you to keep it. It looks so much better on you than it ever did on me.”

“Only because this is actually really warm and it’s cold today,” She surrenders.

“Of course.”

She shakes her head, but she doesn’t unzip the jacket. Nor shove it into her bag. She just keeps walking beside me, the sleeves still brushing her hands, my jacket still wrapped around her.

And for some reason, that feels like the best damn win I’ve had in a long time.

TEN

I’m genuinely—and annoyingly—jealous

SOPHIE

The bookstore is my favorite job for one reason—it's almost like I’m getting paid to study in peace. I’m tucked behind the register with a textbook cracked open beside me. It’s slow here—this time of year always is, after the back-to-school rush dies down. Most students already have what they need. I finished my part of the Intro to Comm presentation earlier today. Micah had emailed the team with edits and suggestions, and I revised my slides and sent it back.

I noticed recently that I think about him way too much. He's ridiculously handsome—tall, with that brown hair that curls slightly at the ends. Beautiful gray eyes and sharp jaw. It’s not fair. He’s genuinely one of the most attractive people I’ve ever met, but it’s not just that. He’s warm, kind, and considerate in this really quiet, subtle way.

I’ve never been close to anyone like him. The scary part is that I enjoy his company. I genuinely have a good time talking to him.

But his life seems so far from mine. And yet he never rubs it in my face. He never makes me feel small. I wonder if he has his own baggage. He must. Everyone does. Even people like him, I’m sure.

I’ve thought about telling him about Carter. Just to get some perspective. Maybe advice. But every time I get close to the idea, I pull back. I don’t want him to see me like that—vulnerable, messy, weak. I don’t want him to see my baggage and decide it’s too much. He’s the one person lately who makes me feel lighter. I don’t want to lose that.

And then there’s Grant. He’s loud and obnoxious in the best way. Hilarious. He doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. I envy the ease and freedom he seems to carry.

I sigh and force myself to refocus, pulling out my notes for my Civic Engagement and Public Policy class. I’m writing a paper on the role of civic duty in modern democracy, but the words are swimming on the page. I need to focus. I can’t risk losing any of my scholarship money.

But maybe that’s the problem. For once, there’s something—or someone—taking up more space in my mind. And I don’t know whether I should enjoy it or be terrified.

The bell above the entrance chimes and I glance up. Poppy walks in with that effortless bounce in her step, her smooth hair is pulled back today and a big smile lights up her whole face. “Hey, roomie,” she beams. “I was hoping to catch you this morning, but you were already gone. I just got out of Chem Lab and have some time before my next class. Thought I’d hang with my new bestie.”

I smile, a little surprised but warmed by her presence. “I’d love that. I’m here for just another hour.”

“No problem!” she shrugs. “Looks pretty quiet in here. I’ll just hang out.”

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a wrapped sandwich. “I made us something. It’s nothing fancy, but I hope you like it.”

“Oh my god.” My eyes go wide. “Seriously, thank you. You're a lifesaver.”

Poppy grins. “We’ve gotta look out for each other. Now, please don’t get mad if I maybe forgot to lock the door again today.”

I’m big on locking doors—a habit I picked up after my mother remarried. Poppy, though, not so much. But I can’t be mad at her, not when she’s sitting here bringing me homemade food.

She settles onto the empty stool beside the register, already peeling back the wrapper on her half. “So,” she says, tone casual but with a glint of mischief in her eye, “Are you seeing anyone?”