Page 130 of Cold Mercy

“It’s not complicated,” I whisper. “I wanted to hold you, so I politely asked.” I look down at her, keeping my voice low.

“That’s not how this works, Reed.”

“How does what work?” I lean in closer. “Us?”

She stiffens, cheeks flushing. “‘Us’ is not a thing.”

I smirk. “Last time you said that, you nearly kissed me in a living room.”

She glares up at me, her voice dropping low.

“That was a joke, you really need to touch grass.”

“I’d rather touch you.”

Her breath barely stutters, and it’s enough to fucking kill me.

“Keep dreaming,” she mutters.

“That’s the problem,” I whisper. “I do.”

She swallows, throat working, and I feel the weight of everything she’s not saying. I don’t push. God knows I want to, but not tonight.

CHAPTER 33

SOPHIA

“Hey! Everyone! Photo booth time!” James’s voice booms over the music.

The crowd cheers and starts moving toward the tent in the corner. Thomas’s hand on my waist tightens slightly, guiding me to follow, but I plant my feet.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” I say, pulling back just enough to create space between us. “I’ll wait by the table.”

Thomas leans down, his voice low and persuasive, that charm he wears like a weapon slipping back into place.

“Come on, Sophia, it’s for them. Besides,” he adds, his eyes dragging over my dress with open appreciation, “I put on a suit, which happens once a decade, and you’re wearing a dress that makes it hard to breathe. It would be a crime not to capture it.”

I hesitate. It’s a stupid reason, but the way he looks at me, like he actually wants me there, makes my resolve crumble.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But one photo, that's it.”

We wait in line, and when it’s our turn, he holds the curtain open for me.

The booth has one of those narrow benches built into the back wall, the kind meant to force people closer than they planned. We sit side by side, knees brushing immediately. I used to love this. Taking stupid photos, making memories, but sitting here, pressed against his side, I feel a sharp pang in my chest. This isn't a memory in the making, it’s just another picture I’ll end up crying over when he inevitably leaves again. One more artifact of something that almost happened.

I shift to smooth my dress, lifting myself just enough to resettle. My balance slips for half a second, and my hand comes down on his knee.

The reaction is instant and unfiltered. His body tightens like I’ve struck him with a live wire. I slowly look at where my hand landed, then at his face.

He doesn't pull away, just looks at me, eyes steady, carrying a silent question I’m afraid to answer.

I pull my hand back carefully.

We sit as far apart as the narrow bench allows, shoulders angled away purposely. It’s a quiet kind of resistance. Our heads turn in opposite directions. My chin lifts, stubborn as hell, eyes fixed straight ahead like I’m daring myself to hold the line. He turns his head just enough to keep me in his peripheral vision.

The camera flashes, and he turns his head toward me immediately after. The movement is instinctive, pulled by a gravity he isn't pretending to fight. I turn too, meeting his gaze. He’s looking at me openly, curious, intense in a way that tightens something low in my chest.

For a second, neither of us speaks. His lashes flutter once, slow, like he’s weighing whether to retreat or stay exactly where he is. I watch him, trying to read the silence between us.