Page 55 of Safe Place

“Hi, Davis. Do you know if Micah’s home?” I ask the doorman, trying to catch my breath.

“Let me give him a call,” Davis says, polite but cautious, like he’s not about to confirm anything without checking first. A moment later, he nods. “He’s in. You can go up.”

He swipes a card to the penthouse elevator. Then I thank him and step in, my heart hammering as I ride up. My mind races with everything I want to say. Why didn’t you text me back? Where have you been? Did you change your mind about me already? One kiss and that’s it?

The elevator doors slide open—and there he is.

Micah stands there, looking tired but smiling at me like he’s genuinely happy I’m here. And just like that, every planned word flies out of my head. My mind is blank.

“You really can’t even go a week without seeing me, Soph?” he teases, his smile widening. His eyes sweep over me, amused. “And why are you drenched?”

“It’s raining outside. A lot,” I mutter, tucking wet hair behind my ear. “I couldn’t find a parking spot close enough.” Then, softer, “Is everything okay?”

“I missed you,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, almost teasing. “Everything’s fine. I just got back from Boston.” He pauses, then adds, softer, “I was going to shower and then go find you.”

His gaze drifts over me, lingering on my dripping hair and soaked shirt, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Maybe you might want a shower too?”

“Oh, yeah.” I glance down at myself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get your floors wet.” Then the annoyance rushes back in. “You know, you could’ve told me. A quick ‘Hey, Soph, I’ll be MIA for a few days’ takes less than a minute to text.”

He doesn’t argue. Just nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve never really done this before,” he admits quietly.

One thing I noticed about Micah: he's quick to admit when he's wrong. For a billionaire, he can be surprisingly humble.

That was easier than I expected—too easy. I’m not sure what to do with the lack of tension.

As if he senses it, his expression lightens again. “About that shower,” he says easily, then lifts a brow. “Should we be environmentally responsible and save some water by showering together?”

My brain short-circuits. Oh my God, did I shave? My legs—yeah, okay, I shaved two days ago but—what about my underwear? Oh God, my bra is so old⁠⁠—

“Relax, Soph,” Micah cuts in, laughing as if he can read every panicked thought running through my head. “I’m kidding.”

My face goes hot instantly, and I’m sure I look like an idiot.

“Go shower in my bathroom,” he says, still grinning. “I’ll use the one out here.”

“Oh—I don’t⁠⁠—”

“Sophie,” he interrupts gently, already turning toward the hall. “It’s fine. I’ll leave a couple things on the bed for you to wear when you’re done.”

His bathroom looks like something out of a luxury hotel—sleek marble, soft lighting, and a rainfall showerhead suspended above me. Everything smells clean and crisp, just like Micah himself. His shampoo and bodywash line the shelf, and I can’t wait to use them. The scent wraps around me, and I swear this is the best shower I’ve ever had in my entire life.

When I finally step out, I wrap myself in one of his huge towels—it’s so soft it feels like a blanket—and use the Dyson blow dryer. Because of course Micah Vale owns a fancy hair dryer. Thankfully, my hair dries relatively fast since it’s short. Once it’s mostly dry, I tighten the towel around myself, holding it in place with both arms as I step back into his bedroom. He left clothes neatly folded at the edge of the bed. The tops look fine—oversized but wearable—but I hesitate at the bottoms. They look way too big. I’m still debating when there’s a knock on the door—quick, almost impatient—and then it swings open before I can even react.

“Hey, how was the shower—” Micah starts, stepping in. His hair is still damp, his shirt clinging slightly at the collar, and he looks unfairly good. We both freeze. He’s staring at me—really staring—because I’m standing there in nothing but a towel. My heart lurches, my grip tightening instinctively.

And then I notice where his gaze moves. Not my legs, not the towel—my arm. My left forearm. The scar. The six-inch scar I’ve spent years hiding under long sleeves, never letting anyone see.

Panic spikes through me, and I instinctively move to cover it, but the motion loosens the towel. It slips before I can stop it, falling to the floor in one horrifying thud.

For half a second, everything stops. I’m completely exposed, and Micah is frozen in place, his eyes widening, his breath catching. There’s something in the way he looks at me—his gaze caught between surprise and something deeper, heavier, like he’s trying and failing to tear his eyes away. He doesn’t move. Or even blink. He just stares. Snapping out of it first, I grab the towel, clutching it back to my chest.

My face is burning as I spin away from him. “What is the point of knocking if you’re not going to wait for me to answer!”

“To be fair,” he says, his voice low, almost strained, “it’s been like thirty minutes. I waited. I figured you’d at least be dressed by now.”

“I was about to get dressed!” I snap back, still flustered, cheeks blazing.

He drags a hand through his damp hair, clearly trying to compose himself, his eyes darting anywhere but me now. “Right. Sorry.” His voice is rougher than usual. He steps toward the bed, picking up some of the clothes he left for me. “Here. You should, uh, put these on before you catch a cold.”