Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
One soft, horrifying thud
SOPHIE
I haven’t seen Micah since he gave me—well, let me use—this car. It’s better than anything I ever imagined driving.
It’s been four days. Four long, quiet days since that kiss.
I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe it wasn’t good for him. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t reached out, hasn’t stopped by the cafe or the bookstore, hasn’t even shown up to class. He regrets it and is too nice to let me down. So he’s avoiding me.
Grant skips class here and there, but never Micah. I stare at my phone, scrolling up our text thread even though I already know there’s nothing new.
Me
Hey! Missed you and Grant in class today. Is everything okay?
No response.
I could text Grant, but that feels desperate—obsessive—over one stupid kiss.
Screw it.
I grab my keys and drive to The Haven. It’s pouring out, and it’s my first time driving in the rain, but I don’t care. I find a spot a few blocks away and jog the rest of the way. By the time I reach the entrance, I’m soaked.
“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.”
I snatch the clothes from him without looking up, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
“Thanks,” I mutter, my voice sharper than I intend. Micah stays standing there a second longer than necessary, back half-turned as if giving me privacy, but I can feel him.
As soon as he steps out, I release a deep breath.
I throw on the T-shirt first—it hangs halfway down my thighs—and then tug on the sweatpants, rolling the waistband three times to keep them from sliding off.
My hands are still shaking. Did he see everything?
Oh God, he definitely saw everything. My scar. My body.
When I step out, Micah is leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed, pretending like he hasn’t been waiting. His eyes flick to me briefly, lingering a second longer than they should before he clears his throat.
“Feel better?” he asks casually, but there’s something in his voice—lower, strained.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, pretending nothing happened, even though I can barely meet his eyes.
Micah gives a small nod, his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smile. “Good. You, uh, look cute in that.”
“Thanks.”
But the way he’s still watching me—like he’s trying very hard not to think about what just happened—makes it impossible to believe either of us is as calm as we’re pretending to be.
“Give me your clothes so I can toss them in the washer,” he says suddenly, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine—do you have a plastic bag?”
Micah arches a brow at me, unimpressed. “Sophie, it’s gonna smell. And it’s drenched in rain. That’s gross.”
I let out a quiet sigh, finally giving in. “Fine.”
I go and grab my clothes, then come back with the wet bundle and hand it to him. He goes and puts them in the washer.
When he’s comes back, he’s not smiling or playful like his usual self. When his eyes lift back to mine, they’re steady and serious.
“Now,” he says quietly, his voice softer but firm, “let’s talk about your arm.”
MICAH
As impossibly distracting as it was seeing Sophie naked, it wasn’t enough to make me forget the mark on her arm. Concern cut through everything else.
“How long have you had it? Who gave it to you?” My voice is low, careful, like I’m afraid she might shatter if I push too hard.
“Micah, I’d rather not—” Her voice is strained, like she’s holding something back.
“Sophie, please.” I take a step closer, searching her face. “Why won’t you let me in?”
Her gaze drops to the floor, her fingers tightening protectively around her arm. “It’s not something I want to talk about.”
I know I should stop. I should let it go. But the thought slips out before I can catch it. “Is that why you never roll up your left sleeve?”
She flinches. “No—yes,” she finally admits, her voice breaking. “Yes, it is. And that’s all I’m going to say.”
“Sophie,” I say gently, but almost pleading, “Do you really think I’d judge you? That I’d ever make light of what you’ve been through? Or—”
“Micah, stop! Please.” Her voice cracks as the words burst out.
“It’s a hideous, embarrassing scar—and the way I got it is even worse.
Every time I feel it, every time I see it, I’m reminded of how it happened and who—” She cuts herself off abruptly, as if she’s caught herself just before saying too much.