Page 55 of Cold Mercy

I stop, and my hand freezes on her cheek.

I lower the cloth and look straight into her eyes, stripping away the sarcasm. I lean in, invading her space until she has to look at me.

“No, Sophia,” I say firmly, my voice rough. “I won’t miss a chance to be with you when you need it.”

Her breath hitches. She stares at me, the bitterness draining away, leaving only a vast, crushing sadness. A single tear spills over her lashes and tracks down her cheek.

She drops her head, her forehead now resting against my chest. Her hands let go of the counter and clutched the fabric of my shirt, twisting it tight.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” she sobs into my shirt. “I tried so hard not to see it. Everyone knew… everyone knew but me, and I just kept defending him.”

An ache blossoms in my chest as I wrap my arms around her, resting my chin on the crown of her head.

He didn't deserve her. He didn’t deserve a single tear from her.

I slide my hands under her thighs and lift her again. She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively, burying her face in the crook of my neck. I hold her tighter than necessary because I want to feel her whole.

I walk to the bed and lower us both down, keeping her in my arms. Pulling the duvet up, I tuck her in, then lie down beside her, pulling her back against my chest.

She curls into me, small and broken, fitting against me as if she were carved for this space.

“I’m here,” I whisper into her hair, my hand stroking her back in long, soothing lines. “You’re safe, baby.”

The word slips out before I can stop it. Baby.

I feel my heart hammer a frantic warning against my ribs.

I have never called anyone that. Not once. It implies a future I haven't earned yet. It feels like a promise I’m not qualified to make.

I shouldn’t be calling her that. I shouldn’t be holding her like she’s mine.

But she doesn’t pull away. She makes a small, broken sound and buries her face deeper into my shirt, holding on tighter, as if that word was the only thing anchoring her to the ground.

And I let her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, closing my eyes, knowing I’m sinking deeper into quicksand and refusing to reach for a branch.

This gentleness...it doesn't belong to me. But with her, a different man emerges, one I don't even recognize. He acts not on protocol or strategy, but on a raw, undeniable instinct to shield her from the world. It’s as if this version of me was dormant all along, built for the sole purpose of being her protector.

God, have mercy on me. Because right now? There is nothing in this world I want more than this moment not to end. If I could freeze time, I would. Just her weight against me, her breath on my skin. Exhaustion hits me like a freight train, and somewhere between counting her breaths and memorizing the way she curls into me…I fall asleep too.

✽✽✽

I wake up in the same bed, and of course, she’s gone. Jesus. I’d give anything to wake up with her still here. Not because she’s shaking or crying or drowning in trauma, but because she wants to. I’d give anything for one morning where she doesn’t run.

I scrub a hand over my face, drag myself into the bathroom, and splash cold water over eyes that burned half the night watching her fall apart. I head downstairs, and my eyes catch a flicker of movement coming from the kitchen.

When I step into the dining room, a few cardboard boxes sit open on the table. Sophia stands by the counter, hair messy, face pale, and her expression dead, empty. Like someone switched her off. Everything in the house that had felt untouched for months is now gone; the shelves, walls, and tables stripped bare.

It looks like someone moved out overnight.

She looks at me with blank eyes and gestures at the table.

“I made you breakfast.”

I wasn't prepared for the softness in her voice, so gentle and completely at odds with last night and everything else between us.

“You didn’t have to,” I manage. “Thank you.”

If I didn’t know better, if I could forget last night… I could almost pretend I’m a husband coming down to breakfast with his beautiful wife. I sit and eat a little, sipping the coffee. She doesn't touch her coffee, simply holding the mug to her cheek while she stares at a hole in the floor only she can see.