Chapter 5
FIVE
I’ve apparently lost all self-control
MICAH
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I’ve completely lost control of my own feet.
Sophie mentioned earlier that she was stopping by the bookstore. Maybe to grab a textbook she hadn’t gotten yet. It’s been over an hour. She’s probably long gone, already in class.
So why the hell am I still walking in this direction?
I tell myself I’m just passing by, but that’s bullshit. I step into the bookstore and glance around. Empty, of course—no sign of her, not like I expected one.
Still, I drift toward the textbook section. It’s quiet—I’m sure most students are done shopping for the semester. My eyes catch the apparel corner. And there it is: the same gray Westcliffe hoodie Sophie was wearing today, hanging on display.
Before I know it, I’m reaching for one. Then a green one. Then a black crewneck. A few white long sleeve tees. Then—because I’ve apparently lost all self-control—two Westcliffe baseball caps. Green and black.
What the hell am I doing? Since when did I have so much school spirit? I've been to this store a hundred times and rarely ever bought anything that wasn't a textbook, and now I'm standing here holding an armful of hoodies like some kind of proud parent.
I head to the register and ring the bell, ready to check out and hopefully come to my senses. There’s movement behind the curtain—then I can’t help but grin.
It’s Sophie. Her chestnut hair is tied in a low ponytail, cheeks slightly flushed. One sleeve of her hoodie is rolled up, the other hanging down. And just like that, I’m smiling like a complete idiot.
“Sophie, hey. What brings you to this side of town?” I ask like a complete dumbass.
She blinks, then smiles back—but it’s small, and she doesn’t quite meet my gaze.
I tilt my head, teasing. “Sophie, why are you working three jobs? It’s three, right? Or is there another one I haven’t found you in yet?”
She lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “Just three.”
Just three. I want to ask why, but I don’t. Not yet, at least. I’ve got a feeling the answer isn’t something she hands over easily.
She looks at the mountain of merch in my arms. “What is all this?”
“What can I say?” I grin. “You inspire me.”
She eyes me suspiciously, then glances over her shoulder like she’s making sure no one’s watching. “Come here,” she says, motioning me closer.
I step forward, and she leans in.
“Westcliffe gear is kind of overpriced,” she whispers. “But I get a pretty insane employee discount. Like, seventy-five percent. And if something has a defect—” she lifts the hem of her sleeve and points to a small hole in the stitching, “—it’s practically free.”
My grin widens across my face before I can stop it, stretching ear to ear. God. She’s so cute. She’s so proud of this tiny, scrappy hack. She’s genuinely trying to help me save money, and the fact that she thinks I’d even want a discount makes it ten times cuter.
“Well?” she asks, catching my expression. “You want the deal or not?”
“Sure—let’s do it,” I say easily, like I’m agreeing to grab coffee instead of whatever secret operation she’s clearly about to rope me into. The truth is, I just want to see what she does next. I’m having way too much fun with this.
Her face lights up. “Okay. Come on.”
She grabs my wrist and pulls me past the counter, through the curtain she came out from minutes ago.
The back room opens up into organized chaos—boxes, books, and rows of tables and bins stacked high with Westcliffe hoodies, sweatshirts, tees, joggers.
Everything is sorted into messy but intentional piles, little paper signs taped to the tables.
“Small, Medium, Large,” she mutters under her breath, scanning as she walks. “Extra Large, Extra Extra Large”
She stops in front of one table and gestures at me. “You look like an Extra Large.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You look very confident.”
She shrugs. “I’m usually right.” Then she glances down at the next pile and grimaces. “Although there’s way more Extra Extra Large than anything else.”
“What is all this?” I ask.
“Defective clothes,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Loose stitching, slightly crooked logos, tags sewn weird. But they’re all small things people wouldn’t notice unless they’re really looking.
They sell these at a discount, and employees get even more off.
” She spreads her arms like she’s presenting treasure. “So. Take your pick.”
I don't know what to call this. I’m with a girl I barely know, and I don't want to be anywhere else. This is not something I ever imagined myself doing—standing in a stockroom, digging through discounted college merch, letting a girl guide me around like it’s our own little secret.
If my dad could see me right now, he’d probably ask what the hell went wrong.
I start flipping through hoodies, feeling the thick fabric between my fingers. “What size do you wear?”
She pauses, then shrugs. “I like an oversized fit. So usually medium or large.”
I nod like I’m filing away critical information. I grab an XL for myself, then another. Then I wander to the Large pile (there is almost nothing in the medium pile) and pick up a few that look identical—same color, same design. I compare them for a second before turning back to her.
“Here,” I say, handing her one. Then I hold up the second. “We should match. Again.”
For a split second, she just looks at me. Then her cheeks go faintly pink, like the blush sneaks up on her before she can stop it. She clears her throat and pretends to inspect the hoodie.
“You’re very committed to this matching thing,” she says.
“I aspire to be like you. I want everyone to know we’re buddies.”
I swear I see her cheeks go even redder.
We finish our shopping spree, and Sophie scans and bags the clothes, one by one.
For a moment, I just watch her—this girl who works three jobs, who always folds her sleeves and jumps like she’s nervous.
She wears Westcliffe gear like it’s not a choice but a uniform, like it makes up most of her closet.
“I’ll take these too,” I say, sliding the pile I grabbed from the front of the store onto the counter.
She glances down at them. “Why? There are repeats in the defective ones you got.”
“I know.” I shrug. “I’m giving them to Grant. Can you put them in a separate bag?”
She nods without question and keeps scanning.
“Here.” I hand her the medium-sized ones I picked out for her.
“You didn’t have to, Micah. But I’m only taking them because I know there’s no way they’d fit you,” she says, but her huge smile tells a different story. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” I mean it. “This was a lot of fun. Let’s do it again.”
When I leave the store, the thought lingers.
If she’s working this much, money must be tight.
The discount probably makes this stuff cheaper than anything else she could buy.
And maybe that’s why she wears so much of it—not because she loves it, but because it’s practical.
Because it’s what she can afford. Because it’s what she has.
It also occurs to me that a thirty minute trip to the campus bookstore was not on today's schedule.
I'm running behind. Again.
After two more classes that drag longer than they should, I finally head back toward the apartment. When I reach my building, I could pull into the garage with my designated space. But instead, I turn onto the side street and find a spot a block away.
It’s not about convenience. It’s about passing by the cafe. Again. It’s definitely not my brightest moment, as I now have to walk with a shitload of bags filled with Westcliffe merch.
I don’t know what I’m hoping for. Probably that she’ll be behind the counter again, sleeves pushed up, and eyes focused on the espresso machine. But when I glance through the glass, she’s not there.
I head inside my building, into my elevator, up to the penthouse. The doors open and there they are—Wyatt on the kitchen island, long legs kicked out like he owns the place, and Grant sprawled on the couch watching SportsCenter.
I should be annoyed. But honestly, it’s kind of nice to come home to a house that’s not empty. I don’t even mind seeing the mess they leave behind.
Still, I can’t help but give them a hard time.
“Why are you guys always here?” I ask. “Do you two not literally live in this building?”
Neither of them answers. Wyatt just shrugs and sips something green from a glass bottle.
It’s true—they do live here. Grant’s got a unit on the seventh floor, courtesy of my dad.
One of the many perks that come with being the unofficial third Vale son.
I’m actually happy about that. And Wyatt bought into the building last year when it went up—the apartment right next to Grant’s—something about proximity to campus and skyline views.
And probably Grant and me. Not that he’d admit that.
I pull out the bags from the campus store. Hoodies, long sleeves, and baseball caps.
“Here,” I say, tossing the bag of non-defective clothes in Grant’s direction. “Wear these to Intro to Comm.”
He catches one mid-air, expression twisting into his annoying smile. “What the hell is this? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”
“Woah, you go on a Westcliffe shopping spree or something?” Wyatt adds.
I ignore them. “Just wear them to the class.”
“Oh, Micah. You’re fucked, aren’t you?” Grant teases, knowing exactly why I bought these.
Wyatt eyes the pile. “Sophie’s cute.”
I pause. Cap still in hand. “Yeah. I know. Stop trying to charm her, bro. You have a girlfriend.”
He takes another sip of whatever overpriced juice he’s drinking. “Not sure how much longer that’s gonna last.”
That gets Grant’s attention. He sits up. “You and Kate? It’s about time.”
Kate and Wyatt look like they were made to be together—Kate with her long, wavy red hair, green eyes, and the figure of a model.
Then there’s Wyatt—objectively the best looking guy at Westcliffe.
Side by side, they’re the kind of couple you’d expect to see on the red carpet.
But she has a huge flaw; she’s crazy. I don’t usually call women crazy, but that’s the only way to describe Kate.
Wyatt sighs, and I can tell the whole topic is weighing a lot on him.
“Yeah. I don’t know. It’s like everything’s always curated with her.
Surface-level. She thinks I’m insane for wanting to start my own firm after law school.
She’s urging me to just go corporate through my dad’s connections and make our lives easier. ” He makes air quotes with his fingers.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “That’s like years away. You haven't even completed undergrad yet.”
He nods. “Exactly. But with Kate, it’s like she doesn’t see me; she just sees the life she could have with me. I want someone who just likes me for me.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Grant breaks it. “Damn. I thought I was the emotionally unstable one in this group.”
I exhale and shake my head. “Fuck, man. You know there’s gonna be a lot of girls chasing you—for your name, your dad, your money. The whole deal. Your old man’s one of the most powerful judges in the country. Good luck finding someone who doesn’t see all that before she sees you.”
Wyatt lets out a low breath and nods. “Right back at you. Take a look in the mirror sometime.”
And just like that, Sophie flickers into my mind—her soft voice, that focused look when she’s reading, how she rolled her eyes when I teased her in class. The way she lit up when she told me about the hoodie discount like she was letting me in on some kind of secret.
“What if I already found her?” I say, quieter than I mean to.
Grant looks up from the sweatshirt he’s holding. “What?”
“The first day I met Sophie, she mentioned that she’d never met anyone who lived at The Haven at Vale. She said it must be nice.” I let out a dry laugh. “My name is literally Micah Vale. I don’t think she’s made the connection.”
Grant smirks. “Aw, well that’s actually kind of cute.”
“Yeah, and don’t even think about it, West,” I warn, pointing at him. “She also works at the bookstore. She offered to sneak me a discount like I’d be excited about saving a few bucks.” I shake my head, almost laughing. “She has no idea who I am. She still wanted to help me.”
Wyatt snorts. “Micah, don’t fuck this up.”
“There isn’t anything to fuck up. Not yet, anyway.” I pause, jaw tight. “I don’t know why, but she’s always taking hits—Ella in class, some creep at the cafe. She’s not my usual type, so I keep wondering if it’s just an instinct to protect her or something.”
“Sorry to break it to you, Mic, but that instinct is not something you possess.” Grant says it with a straight face, like he's delivering a medical diagnosis. “When's the last time you had the mental space to care about anybody else but you and your calendar? This is a Sophie-specific phenomenon.”
Wyatt claps a hand on my shoulder, deadpan. “Accept it, Mic. You’re already screwed.”