Page 15 of Cold Mercy

Thomas lets me walk ahead of him, like he wants to watch my back. It irritates me and settles me at the same time. We step into a massive photo studio inside a renovated townhouse. All glass, white brick, industrial lights.

“Ms. Moreau!” Mr. Young beams the second he sees me.

“So good to see you. Are you here with your fiancé today?”

I do not miss the way Reed lowers his head immediately, hands sliding into his pockets, mouth twitching as if he is biting back a laugh. For a brief, vivid second, I imagine grabbing a nearby light stand and swinging it at his knees.

“Who, me?” I say, deadpan. “Mr. Young, are you joking? No. I’m here on behalf of my friend. And this is…”

A thought flickers. Call him what? Because “human red flag in a leather jacket” feels accurate but impolite.

“…a colleague.” I finish.

Reed finally steps forward, offering his hand with that calm, annoyingly polite tone.

“Thomas Reed. Nice to meet you, Mr. Young.”

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out. Mr. Young shakes his hand, still looking slightly confused, probably recalculating the entire situation in his head. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t know how to label us either. He leads us through the studio, past rows of framed wedding portraits. Happy couples, perfect lighting, perfect timing. Statistically and pessimistically speaking, some of them are divorced, some of them have died, and some of them live side by side rather than together. But I know that there are also those who have survived through thick and thin, had many children, and lived happily ever after. It's a shame I didn't make it into that lucky group.

We stop by a smaller office tucked behind the main hallway. A long table, leather chairs, and three thick portfolios stacked neatly in the center.

“Feel free to look through everything. I’ll be right back,” Mr. Young says.

The door clicks behind him, and he leaves us with silence.

Thomas clears his throat.

“I have no idea what I’m doing here. I know nothing about this stuff.”

I trace a fingertip along the edge of the album.

“Never had a wife?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, heat hits my cheeks. What a stupid question to ask. Oh my God, Sophia, ask him what he eats on Tuesdays and how many women he's slept with, because why not?

“That’s none of my business. I shouldn’t be asking you that. Forget it.”

He doesn’t look offended. Just flip a page.

“I don’t mind,” he says quietly. “And no. I’ve never had anything serious. Never had the time. I worked too much. And I guess… I never met the right person.”

One photo stares up at me. My throat tightens out of nowhere, and a tear falls before I can stop it. A husband kissing his wife on the forehead while holding her cheek. It’s nothing unusual, but the second I look at it, I feel Noah beside me.

I blink hard, willing myself not to fall apart in front of a man I’ve known only for a moment. I swipe the tear quickly.

“You’ll find her,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “The right person. I hope you do.”

And surprisingly, I mean it. Every word, because it's the best thing I've experienced in my relatively short life. The love Noah gave me helped me survive the worst, so I truly wish him the one and only. Our hands brush as we both reach to turn the same page. A tiny touch, barely anything. I look into his eyes, and for a beat, something almost sincere flickers there.

After a moment, the door opens. Mr. Young steps back inside, cheerful.

“So? First impressions?”

I straighten up immediately, wiping any trace of emotion from my face.

“They’re beautiful,” I say quickly, “gorgeous.”

I turn to Thomas, desperate to shift the focus.