Page 93 of Safe Place

I glance at myself now, taking it all in.

The girl in the mirror looks polished. Like she belongs at a place like a gala.

I can’t help but think about how lucky I’ve been this year—with the most thoughtful boyfriend, amazing friends, and the best roommate.

MICAH

I’m waiting by the passenger’s side of the car, messing with my cufflink just to keep from pacing. Now that I have a better sense of her size, I asked Marianne to help me find something that would look good on her—something that would make Sophie feel as beautiful as I see her. Still, I’m nervous. I haven’t seen her all day. I just know she’s upstairs, getting ready, probably overthinking everything like she always does when it comes to herself.

When she finally steps outside, I swear the world stops moving.

The dress is white satin—soft, silky, and made to be touched. It looks like it was made for her, draping over her curves and falling to the floor with a slit that moves like sin. Her short hair is softly curled, her makeup is light but perfect, and the diamonds—fuck, the diamonds. The necklace catches the glow from the streetlight, the earrings glint with every breath she takes, but nothing—and I mean nothing—shines like her.

I’ve seen Sophie in hoodies, oversized tees, sleepy eyes, barefaced and entirely herself—and I’ve always thought she was beautiful. Stunning, even. But this is a different side of her. The side I want to spoil her into having more often. To indulge her until this version isn’t rare, but just as much a part of her everyday as the girl in the hoodie. She’s red-carpet, timeless, goddess-level beautiful, and she doesn’t even know it. Draped over her shoulders is a black wool coat, which would normally not go well with that dress, but somehow Sophie makes it fit perfectly.

She walks toward me with no confidence. I can see it in her face that she is feeling shy and out of place. But she has no idea she’s practically glowing, pale and translucent in the white gown, like something out of a painting rather than a real person standing in front of me. And all I can picture is her in another white dress, walking down an aisle toward me, with forever waiting at the end.

She stops a few feet in front of me, smoothing the strap on her shoulder, eyes uncertain. “Hi Micah,” she says softly.

“Hi Sophie.” I take a step closer, eyes on hers. “You look beautiful.”

Her cheeks flush. She ducks her head for half a second, flustered in that way she gets when she’s not used to being loved out loud. “Well,” she murmurs, glancing back up at me, “you look really good too. But you always look good.”

I huff a quiet laugh, leaning in close. My mouth finds the shell of her ear, and I drop my voice to a murmur. “You have no idea how hard it’s going to be for me to keep my hands off you tonight.” I pull back just slightly, grinning now. “It’s going to be a long, painful night for my poor friend down there.”

Her eyes go wide. Then she slaps my chest, half-gasping, half-laughing. “Micah!”

“What?” I shrug. “Just being honest.”

“You didn’t have to get me all this,” she says after a beat. “I could’ve worn the black dress you got me on my birthday.”

I laugh softly. “And miss the chance to spoil you? Not a chance.”

She turns bright red. Her hand lifts instinctively to cover her face, and I catch her wrist before she can. “You’re so damn cute when you blush, you know that?”

Before she can respond, I lean in and kiss her—soft and careful, just a brush of lips.

“I didn’t want to smudge your lipstick,” I murmur, and her eyes flutter a little. “It’s cold. Let’s go inside.”

I open the car door and take her hand, guiding her in slowly.

Tonight, when every person in that ballroom turns to stare, I’ll be the one standing next to her thinking yeah, she’s mine.

SOPHIE

Everything in the room gleams. The glass, the silver, the bare shoulders, the teeth when people smile at each other. I keep my hand around a champagne flute I'm not going to drink because it’s easier than waving off the waiters who keep circling with trays.

Micah hasn’t let go of me all night. One hand rests on the small of my back or curls lightly around my waist, a quiet tether. And every time he introduces me—This is my girlfriend, Sophie—a jolt of disbelief and wonder zips through me.

He says it so easily, like I’m supposed to be here, beside him, in a room full of people whose last names are carved into stone or written in serif gold on glass towers. He's so good at this—moving pieces, fixing things before they become problems. I wonder if he even realizes he does it.

And then a man who looks like the older version of Micah, with the same gray eyes appears. He’s with a beautiful younger blonde woman.

“Micah,” he says, his voice cutting through the soft hum of the ballroom. It’s polished at the edges, but there’s a tightness beneath the warmth.

Micah straightens beside me. “Hey, Dad.”

His father doesn’t even glance my way. “This is Margot Whitmore. You two know each other, don’t you?”