Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Content and perfectly at peace
SOPHIE
The weeks after Silver Pine are quieter, happier, and so peaceful. I never would have thought this could be my life.
Mark is gone—likely heading back to prison in Illinois.
Micah will make sure of it. My mother's number is blocked, and I will be changing my number soon.
My scholarship is secure. For the first time in years, I feel like I'm able to live in the present without chasing a future I don't even want just to feel safe.
Living with Micah is…I don't have a word for it yet.
Easy, maybe. Easier than I expected. He doesn't make me feel like a guest, doesn't make me feel like I owe him anything for being here. He gave me half his closet space—not that I’ve used it all up.
He even filled the bathroom with more pink products.
He makes coffee every morning before I'm even fully awake.
He drives me to campus even when it's out of his way and pretends it isn't. We fall asleep together and somehow his arm is always around me by the morning.
He never comments on how long I spend in the shower after a hard shift, or how I leave my notes spread across his kitchen island, or how I reorganize his pantry because the way he had it made no sense.
I keep waiting for it to feel like too much. For him to get tired of me being here.
But he just keeps showing up. Every single morning. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.
And somewhere between the coffee and the drives and the kitchen island covered in my notes, I stopped waiting for it to fall apart. I stopped planning for the worst. For the first time, I let myself want something just because I can.
Which is probably why, on a Tuesday afternoon with nothing to lose, I walked into my academic advisor's office and changed my major to English.
My academic advisor did raise an eyebrow at first, which I very much expected.
She pulled up my transcript, looked at my political science credits, and looked at me like I might be going through a quarter-life crisis.
So I answered any questions before she could ask.
I was prepared and brought in some of my poetry—pieces I'd written in the margins of textbooks and in the pages of my non-judgy notebook over the past two years, never intending for anyone to see them.
I brought in the first three chapters of a story I'd started writing the summer before freshman year but never told a single person about.
I sat across from her desk and let her read in silence, which was possibly the most terrifying five minutes of my life.
She looked up and said, “Why were you ever going to be a lawyer?”
I didn't have a good answer. At least not one that wasn't wrapped up in fear.
She was kind about it. Genuinely kind. She helped me map out a new plan, talked me through which credits would carry over, and told me that the writing program would be lucky to have me. I walked out of her office feeling lighter than I ever have.
It’s going to take some time to get used to the idea, but for the first time in forever, I'm not constantly worried about grades or expectations. Or saving up for law school.
I'm registering for new classes—Creative Writing, Modern Poetry, and even an elective about fairytales in literature.
I close the laptop on the course catalog before I can second guess any of it.
I’m lying on my stomach, laptop open in front of me, flipping between tabs and jotting down notes.
The sheets beneath me are still warm from the dryer, and Micah’s hoodie is draped over my shoulders, the sleeves covering my hands completely.
I’m wearing one of his oversized T-shirts while we wait for our laundry to finish its cycle.
My feet are bare, my hair’s tossed up in a messy bun, and I’m getting used to feeling so content and perfectly at peace.
Then I hear the creak of the door behind me.
“Hey there,” Micah says casually. But when I turn around to glance at him, he’s not looking at my face.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, gray eyes locked on one very specific spot—my ass, still pantless while the dryer finishes up. Just his hoodie draped over me in his T-shirt, and black panties that leave very little to the imagination.
“Seriously?” I call out. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know I’m never recovering from this image.” His voice is dark with want. “You. Our bed. My hoodie. No pants. It’s like you’re trying to kill me.”
I smirk, kicking my feet up behind me. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being honest.” His footsteps are slow and measured as he approaches, like he’s holding himself back. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”
“I’m just updating my classes,” I tease, turning slightly to look at him. “Very innocent.”
He stops beside the bed, gaze dragging over every inch of me. “There’s nothing innocent about you right now.” He comes and leans down, one hand leaning on the mattress. “And I’m so close to forgetting how patient I’ve been.”
“Patient?” I echo, letting the word hang between us, thick with challenge.
He nods, eyes darkening. “So fucking patient. Watching you walk around in my clothes, climb into our bed, and I haven’t even touched you.”
I shift my hips slightly, feeling the tension ripple through him. “Then stop being patient,” I say softly.
“Jesus, Sophie,” he growls, dragging his palms over the backs of my thighs. “You have no idea what you just started.”
And the way he looks at me—like he’s about to devour me whole—I know I’m not getting out of this unwrecked.
The second his lips crash into mine, every ounce of restraint between us finally snaps.