Page 71 of Grim

Close enough that it hurt.

“You don’t get to do that,” she whispered.

He froze.

Her voice didn’t shake. Her hands didn’t tremble. She wasn’t pleading. She wasn’t angry.

She was drawing a line.

“You don’t get to hold me like I’m the only thing keeping you sane,” she said, “and then vanish into yourself the second you’re scared.”

His chest tightened. “I’m not scared.”

“You are,” she said gently. “You’re terrified. And instead of letting me in, you’re trying to disappear so you don’t feel it.”

He looked away.

She stepped closer, forcing him to meet her eyes. “If you need space, tell me. If you’re overwhelmed, tell me. But you don’t get to walk away without a word. Not from me.”

His throat worked. “Sophia…”

“I’m not asking you to be someone else,” she said. “I’m asking you to stay. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

He didn’t breathe.

Couldn’t.

She reached up, fingers brushing his jaw — soft, steady, grounding. Her touch was warm, gentle, but it hit him like a punch. Because she wasn’t touching him to soothe him.

She was touching him to anchor him.

“You told me you couldn’t lose me,” she whispered. “Then don’t push me away like you already have.”

Something inside him cracked, sharp and painful and necessary.

He grabbed her waist, pulling her in like he was drowning. His forehead dropped to hers, breath shaking.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he rasped.

“You’re doing it,” she whispered.

He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know,” she said. “But you’re not leaving me. You’re going to save those women. And you’re coming back.”

His hands tightened on her hips. “I will.”

She nodded once. “Then stay with me until you go. Don’t disappear in your head.”

He kissed her, not desperate and not frantic.

Present. Grounded. Real.

Her fingers curled in the front of his cut, pulling him closer like she could hold him together with her bare hands. His hands slid up her back, memorizing the shape of her, the warmth of her, the way she fit against him like she’d been carved for him.

His thumb brushed something cool against her chest, the chain shifting under his touch. A small silver charm, warm from her skin, heart-shaped and worn smooth from years of touch. The milagro. The one she’d told him was for protection.

Hope.