Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
I think this is the moment I finally accept
that I love this guy
SOPHIE
My stepfather is drunk again, banging on my locked door. I’ve pushed my dresser against it, just in case. My room’s on the second floor, but I have an escape planned. My bag is always packed, ready for me to jump if I need to.
“Happy birthday, Sophie!” he yells, slurring. “The legal age of consent in Illinois is seventeen! We don’t have to wait another year!”
I press my hands over my ears, ignoring him, but his voice cuts through anyway.
“Just say the word and we can be together, baby girl. Your mother’s not home.”
I grip my comforter so tight my nails dig into my palms, sharp enough to almost cut.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I jolt upright, drenched in sweat, my breathing coming in quick, panicked bursts.
No. No, no, no.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Micah’s voice is rough with sleep, and he sits up quickly, startled.
Before I can answer, tears are already streaming down my face. My chest feels tight, my breaths shallow, and I’m on the verge of hyperventilating again.
It was just a dream. Calm down. It’s not happening again.
Micah wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his chest. He knows exactly what’s happening.
His embrace is firm, grounding, and slowly—slower than I want but faster than last time—I start to calm down.
Because he’s here. Because he’s holding me, whispering soft reassurances and being my safe place.
God, I hate that this had to happen tonight. The first night we sleep on the same bed together, and of course I have this dream.
But it happens a lot, especially around this time of year.
Micah’s hand rubs slow, comforting circles on my back. “How often does this happen?” he asks quietly, his voice filled with worry.
I swallow, trying to push the tears back, and shake my head. “Uhm not often. Sorry. I must have just had a bad dream.”
I can feel his gaze on me, but I keep my eyes down. I don’t know if I’m ready to tell him. I don’t want him to see that part of me—the part that’s still broken, still haunted.
“How did you do that?” I ask softly, still catching my breath. “Calm me down so fast?”
Micah gives me a small, almost shy smile.
“I asked the doctor after he checked up on you last time. I wanted to know what to do if it ever happened again.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his thumb lingering on my cheek.
“I’ve never hated myself more than I did that day, watching you fall apart and not knowing what to do. ”
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.
“What happened when you turned eighteen?” I know the answer, but I want to hear it from her.
She shrugs, then says, “I emancipated myself when I was seventeen. I was already working two jobs, supporting myself. My mom didn’t care. And not too long after that, Mark got his second DUI. He hit an old man—put him in the hospital. He was sentenced to six years.”
“Shit,” I mutter, realizing there’s still so much I didn’t know.
“That was two years ago…so why do I get the sense you’re still afraid of him? He’s supposed to have four years left.”
Again, Nico already told me the answer.
She hesitates, then murmurs, “He’s getting out early for good behavior. Actually, he might already be out.”
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. “He’s not coming near you. I’ll make sure of that. I swear, Soph. I’ll protect you.” I make a vow to myself as I speak. “Is that why you’re having nightmares?”
She nods again, her eyes clouded with a pain I wish I could erase. “Yes and no. The nightmares come and go, but they always get worse around my birthday. I think it’s because I used to be scared of getting older. Like the clock was ticking down to something I couldn’t stop.”
Her birthday? “Baby, when’s your birthday?”
“This Friday,” she says, barely above a whisper. There’s a heaviness to her voice, like the word itself hurts.
Fuck. I can’t believe I didn’t even know my girlfriend’s birthday.
“Then Friday,” I say, “I’m giving you a new memory. Something good. I’ll make it so you don’t even think of him.”
Her hand tightens around mine. “Please don’t make a big deal out of it,” she says quickly, almost panicked. “It’s not a day I look forward to.”
My chest tightens. “Hey,” I say, quieter now.
She looks at me.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time.” I hold her gaze. “You have me.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “Can we just do something quiet? Just between us? I don’t need anything else.”
I nod, instantly. “Of course.” I promise softly. “Even better.”
And I mean it. I’ll give her new memories. Whatever it takes.