Page 80 of Safe Place

I think this is the moment I finally accept that I love this guy.

MICAH

She’s still tucked against my chest, her breathing slower now, but I can feel it—her body trembling just enough to tell me the nightmare hasn’t fully let go. I keep tracing slow circles on her back, my hand steady even though everything inside me feels like it’s cracking open.

The silence stretches. It’s heavy but not uncomfortable. I don’t try to fill it. I just hold her tighter, let her know I’m here, that she’s safe. Finally, she moves, pulling back slightly. Her face is blotchy, eyes swollen and glassy from crying.

“Sophie,” I say gently, “I’m not going to push you. You don’t owe me anything. But I want you to know that you can tell me whatever it is that’s bothering you. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. And if I can help, I will. Always.”

She hesitates. “I don’t want you to see me differently,” she whispers. “I have a lot of baggage. A lot of history. And I’m scared it’s going to be too much.”

“It won’t be,” I say immediately, my voice firm. “Trust me. I’ve seen a lot. I carry my own baggage too. And nothing you’ve been through will make me see you any differently than I do right now.”

It’s the truth. Nico already gave me the pieces of her story, but hearing it from her—raw and personal—it’ll be different. My pulse is racing from the weight of what she’s trusting me with. Her story. Her pain.

“Promise?” she asks, her tear-filled eyes shining with a fragility that’s breaking my damn heart.

“I promise,” I murmur, tightening my hold on her.

She nods, then takes a slow breath. “My mom remarried when I was fifteen. Life before that wasn’t great, but after, it got much worse.”

“My stepfather, Mark, was a drunk. So was my mom. They’d drink separately, together, all the time. At least one of them was always gone in it. But Mark was the violent type. He’d throw things at the wall—sometimes at me, sometimes at her. His tolerance was higher, so she’d usually pass out first. And he only ever went after the ones who were still awake–the ones who could react. Which meant me. I was the target.”

I remember the scar. I knew it had something to do with him. I gently take her left forearm, running my fingers along the long, purple line that marks her skin.

“That was from a broken beer bottle,” she says, barely above a whisper. “He was swinging it around, yelling. It nearly hit my face, but I blocked it with this arm, and I’ve had this scar ever since.”

Her voice stays steady, but her grip tightens around my hand. I squeeze back, anchoring her. Anchoring myself. I’m livid. I swear, the day I see that bastard might be the day I go to prison.

“And as I got older, as my body started to change, he’d look at me in ways that made my skin crawl. When I turned sixteen, he told me we only had two more years left until we could stop pretending. Like we were both counting down. Like I wanted that too.” She swallows, her voice cautious. “I promise—I never gave him any confusing signals or anything⁠⁠—”

“Sophie.” I cut in gently, but firmly. “Stop.”

She does.

“I know you. You don't have to explain yourself to me.” I hold her gaze so she knows I mean it. “Ever.”

She looks down, and I recognize it—the way she does this, the reflexive need to preempt judgment before it comes. She's spent so long around people who made her feel like she had to defend herself that it's become automatic. Like she genuinely believes there's a version of this story where she's somehow at fault.

It makes my chest ache.

I pause. I hate asking, but I need to know. “Did he ever touch you?”

She shakes her head firmly. “No. I never let him. I locked my door every night and pushed my dresser against it. It was a routine. A must. When I turned seventeen, he started going on about how the age of consent in Illinois is seventeen. If my mom was passed out or not home, he’d try to come into my room. That’s the nightmare I keep having.”

Fuck. That was the dream that woke her up tonight.

She exhales. “The day with Carter…He smelled like alcohol. It wasn’t as strong, but still. The way he looked at me, the things he said and did—it reminded me of Mark. I think that’s what triggered the panic attack that day. It all came rushing back.”

Carter. That piece of shit. I haven’t forgotten. But I can’t let myself go there right now.

“Was there anywhere else you could’ve gone? Family? An aunt or something?” I ask her carefully.

She shakes her head. “No. My mom wasn’t in touch with anyone. I know it sounds dumb. I probably should’ve told CPS. They came multiple times, but I was scared.”

“It’s not dumb,” I say, my voice rough. “You were stronger at fifteen than most people ever are. Stronger than me at twenty.”

But she’s even stronger now. She didn’t report them to CPS, but she’s confident enough now to report Carter.