Page 87 of Cold Mercy

She softens immediately, cupping my cheek with her palm.

“Of course I’ll come back,” she whispers, and then she’s gone, walking out of the room with that quiet determination she gets when she’s too overwhelmed to admit how much she cares.

I sink back into the pillow. I was close, closer than ever, and for the first time I saw it in her eyes. That tiny, trembling, unguarded flicker of ‘don’t go.’

It fills every inch of my head so intensely that I forget Grace was here last night. Forget she saw Sophia, that I’m a cop living a double life, that every moment I share with Sophia is balanced on a lie. And I know the ground is going to break beneath us eventually.

And thinking about losing that, about watching it all collapse… is enough to drag me back under. I’m asleep again before I even understand it’s happening.

Sophia wakes me with a whisper and a hand brushing my shoulder. She stands beside the bed with a wheelchair as if she’s been rehearsing how to say this giving nothing away.

“We can go home,” she says. “Let me help you get dressed first.”

Home. The word lands too easily, like we’ve been doing this for years. She opens a bag she brought and lays new clothes on the chair.

“I got you some clothes. Unfortunately, they’re just standard issue. The ‘Fatalistic Rage’ aisle was closed today.”

I let out a short, dry laugh.

“I’ll make do,” I say, looking at the plain black t-shirt. “I bring the rage with me anyway, it’s custom-fit.”

I reach for the shirt, my fingers brushing the cotton. I’m about to pull my hospital gown off when I freeze.

My hand hovers over my chest, and a curse escapes me under my breath. Fuck. There are two bullet holes marring my skin, stark evidence of a past I can't explain away. You don't get scars like that from falling off a motorcycle or getting into a bar fight. You get them when someone tries to kill you and fails.

I lift a hand.

“Turn around, I’ve got it.”

Her expression flickers from disappointment, as if she expected trust and got distance instead.

I force myself into the shirt, pain biting hard enough to blur everything. I finally give up my pride when it comes to jeans.

“Sophia… would you help me?”

She moves toward me instantly with none of her usual defenses. She doesn’t stare, just helps me the way you help someone you choose. Not someone you’re obligated to. Almost like ‘in sickness and in health.’

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Into the chair.”

“I can walk.”

She gives me a look that ends the discussion before it begins.

She wheels me out, handles the discharge papers, drives us back, and helps me inside her house. I lean on her because it keeps me close, not because I need it.

At the stairs, she stops and exhales a soft curse.

“I really did not think this through.”

I laugh under my breath.

“I’ll make it, princess.”

She keeps a hand on my back anyway as we climb. When we reach the guest room, she steps inside first, switching on the light.

“I set everything up. Clothes in the closet, toiletries in the bathroom. If you need anything, it’s me or Mrs. Gonzalez.

She stands in the doorway, fingers curled around the frame, and something in her eyes wavers, like she’s fighting the instinct to stay.