Page 128 of Cold Mercy

THOMAS

I barely slept. Not because the floor is a medieval torture device, though it is, but every time I closed my eyes, one truth hit me like a fist.

In twenty-four hours, Sophia goes home. And a few weeks later, she leaves the damn continent. That’s all I have, a month to find something on Grace, pack my shit, quit, and prove to Sophia I’ll follow her to the edge of the goddamn world.

Last night shouldn’t have felt as good as it did. The whole group was teasing each other, laughing like nothing was broken, nothing complicated.

It felt like a family, like something I haven’t had in years. And Sophia… fuck. She laughed. At my jokes, barely, but it happened. Her eyes softened when she thought no one was looking.

There’s still something there. I don’t know what version of ‘something,’ I don’t know how small, how buried, but I saw it in her eyes. A spark, a flicker, maybe delusion. Doesn’t matter, I’m holding onto it with both hands.

After yesterday's dinner, we went upstairs. She lay down and passed out in seconds, like some tiny, exhausted angel. I lay on the floor staring at the ceiling like an idiot, replaying the moment she’d walked toward me at the mock ceremony with a bouquet in her hands. Her heartbeat was so close I could feel it. I could’ve fucking knelt right there.

✽✽✽

For once, I skip my workout. The ceremony prep starts at sunrise, so there's no point in burning energy. I’ll need it to keep pretending I’m not unraveling over someone who hates my guts. When I wake, the bed is empty, and I hear movement in the bathroom.

I rub my eyes, walk over, and knock lightly.

“Any chance your beloved Thomas can come in to take a piss?”

Her laugh bursts out immediately. It's fucking addictive.

“No! Don’t come in, I’ll be out in a second!”

I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting like an idiot groom on his wedding day for a bride who doesn’t belong to him. The door opens, and I forget how to breathe.

She steps out with her head slightly lowered, smoothing her palms on a long, pale-blue dress.

She lifts her eyes, confused by my silence.

“What? What’s wrong? Did I stain something? Does it look weird?”

Christ. Nothing is wrong. Everything is violently, unfairly right.

The dress hugs her waist, skims over her hips, and flows when she moves.

Her hair falls in soft waves down her back, her skin catching the morning light like it’s made for it.

I swallow hard.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I manage. “You look…Christ, Sophia, you look perfect.”

She tries to hide the smile, but it slips through anyway, so genuine it knocks my balance out from under me. For a second, one holy second, she looks at me like I’m not the villain in her story.

Then she clears her throat, steps closer, and taps my arm like she’s scolding a child.

“Come on, sir. Our friends are getting married today, try to keep up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

God. One smile and I’m already planning how to survive wanting her.

I grab my suit and slip into the bathroom before I say something I can’t take back.

✽✽✽

When she steps into the aisle to walk alone, bouquet in hand, my body just… stops. She hesitates for a second, jaw locking like she’s steadying herself, and then she goes. Slow, proud, perfect posture, the sunlight catching on her hair. I know she’s not the bride, but all I can think is that I want her walking toward me like that someday. I want that look on her face to be for us, for something real.