Page 111 of Grim

Brick lingered after the others stepped back, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. He wasn’t looking at the cut or the candle; he was looking at the ground, jaw tight, throat working like he was swallowing something sharp.

Grim watched him shift his weight, favoring the side that had taken the worst of the damage. He shouldn’t have been on his feet this long. Hell, he shouldn’t have been out here at all. But Brick had insisted. Said Switchblade deserved it.

Brick finally lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed but dry. He gave the cut a small nod; not the loud, eager kid he used to be, but a quieter version of himself. Older. Changed.

When he turned away, Grim caught the faint tremor in his hand. Not fear. Not weakness. Just the weight of surviving when someone else didn’t.

Brick met Grim’s eyes for half a second, something raw flickering there — guilt, grief, determination — then he looked away fast, wiping his nose on his sleeve like he hoped no one saw.

Grim caught the flicker in Brick’s eyes — that raw, shaken look a man gets the first time death hits close. Brick wasn’t the loud kid tonight. He wasn’t trying to prove anything. He was just standing there, hurting, trying to breathe through it.

And Grim felt it — that shift. Not hardening. Not toughening. Just… growing up the way no one should have to.

Vandal hovered near the back of the group, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders tight. He wasn’t talking. Not cracking jokes. Not nudging Ghost or Brick like he usually did. He just stared at Switchblade’s cut, jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.

When Brick stepped away, Vandal’s eyes followed him; something sharp and pained flickering there before he dropped his gaze fast, like he didn’t have the right to look.

Grim almost called him over, but Vandal shook his head once, barely noticeable, and took a step back instead. Not out of disrespect. Out of something else. Something Grim couldn’t name.

Vandal scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard, then turned away from the table like he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore.

Grim filed it away — the tension, the silence, the way Vandal couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes — but he didn’t push. Everyone grieved differently.

When the others drifted away, Grim stayed where he was, staring at the cut on the table.

He scanned the yard again, even though he’d already done it twice. His eyes tracked every shadow, every shift of wind, every creak of the fence. Nothing was wrong. Nothing moved. But his muscles stayed tight, coiled, ready.

He hated it, the way his mind replayed the night she was taken, the way silence felt like a threat now. He hated that he couldn’t shut it off.

He wasn’t afraid of the Reapers. He was afraid of failing her again.

His throat felt tight. His chest felt too small. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He didn’t hear Sophia approach.

He only felt her hand, small, warm, and trembling, slip into his.

“Maddox?” she whispered.

He swallowed hard. “He was supposed to patch in next month.”

Sophia’s breath caught.

“He was steady,” Grim said, voice rough. “Quiet. Reliable. The kind of man you want at your back. And he died because of me.”

Sophia stepped closer. “No.”

Grim’s jaw clenched. “I should never have left you. I should’ve gotten to you faster. I should’ve—”

“Stop.” Her voice cracked. “You saved me. He tried to keep me safe. You both did what you could.”

Grim shook his head, eyes burning. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

Sophia’s fingers tightened around his. “You didn’t lose me.”

That broke him.

A single, sharp breath escaped him — half sob, half exhale — and he bowed his head, shoulders shaking once, hard.