Page 114 of Grim

He sat. Because no one disobeyed Abuela.

She ladled steaming pozole into bowls, the broth shimmering with red oil, the scent of oregano and lime drifting through the room. She set a bowl in front of Grim, then cupped his cheek with a hand that smelled like cilantro, onions, and soap.

“Mijo,” she said softly. “Eat.”

Grim swallowed hard. He ate.

Slowly at first. Then faster. Then like a man starved for something he didn’t know he’d been missing. Sophia watched him, her heart twisting at the way his shoulders loosened, the way his eyes softened, the way he seemed to breathe differently, deeper and steadier, with every bite.

When Abuela left, Sophia walked her to the door.

On her way back down the hallway, Sophia slowed, something tightening in her chest without warning. Her breath hitched, sharp and instinctive, the same way it had in the cage when footsteps meant danger. The house was quiet, warm, safe… but her body didn’t believe it. Her pulse kicked hard anyway.

She pressed a hand to the wall, steadying herself, whispering, “It’s okay,” even as her vision narrowed for a heartbeat.

The wave passed. Not quickly. Not cleanly. But it passed.

When she returned to the kitchen, Grim was still standing there — staring at the empty bowl like it had knocked the breath out of him.

He didn’t hear her come in.

His hand came up to his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes. His shoulders tightened, then shook once, a sharp, contained tremor, the kind a man makes when he’s trying not to fall apart.

Sophia froze.

He’d held it together through blood and fire. Through the trauma. Through the nightmares. Through the memorial. He’d broken, yes, but he hadn’t fallen apart. Not like this.

But now… over a bowl of pozole?

Her chest ached.

She didn’t need to hear his thoughts to understand. She saw it in the way he stood, rigid and braced, like the smallest kindness had cracked something open inside him. She saw it in the way he wiped at his eyes quickly, like he didn’t want her to see. She saw it in the way he exhaled, shaky and uneven, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

It hit her then, soft and sharp all at once.

This was the first time in decades anyone had mothered him. Fed him. Cared for him without asking for anything in return. And it broke him in a way violence never had.

“Maddox…” she whispered.

He startled slightly, dropping his hand, trying to school his expression, but his eyes were still red, still wet at the corners.

Sophia didn’t say a word. She just stepped close and touched his arm.

Grim leaned into her touch immediately, like he didn’t even think about it, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. Like her hand was the only thing keeping him upright.

Sometimes, when the house was quiet and Grim’s breathing settled into that deep, steady rhythm beside her, Sophia would open her eyes and stare into the dark. The memories didn’t slam into her anymore. They just drifted in, cold and unwelcome, the echo of metal bars and silence brushing against the edges of her mind.

Grim’s arm tightened around her in his sleep, pulling her closer without waking, as if his body sensed the shift in hers before she even moved. That instinct, that unconscious protectiveness, steadied her more than words ever could.

She breathed him in, cedar and leather and home, and the memories thinned, fading the way shadows do when morning starts to push through.

That night, Sophia fell asleep on his chest, her breath warm against his skin, her fingers curled into his shirt like she was anchoring herself to him. Grim wrapped around her protectively, one arm under her head, the other around her waist, holding her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever been given.

She felt him press his face into her hair, breathing her in, vanilla, warmth, home.

His voice was a whisper in the dark. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Half-asleep, Sophia murmured something soft in Spanish, a prayer, a promise, a thank-you.