Page 72 of Cold Mercy

She turns and sits on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress beside her, but I stay standing, watching her. She reaches underneath the bedframe and pulls out a small, wrapped box she’d clearly hidden there, waiting for the right moment.

As she holds the box out to me, I notice the slight tremor in her hand. The moment I take it, its heaviness registers, a solid, surprising weight in my palm.

“Just…please don’t take it personally. I didn’t want you to think I expected anything or that it meant something specific. I just…thought maybe the gentleman inside the beast deserved a little attention too.”

Her eyes dart to the box when I lift it, urging me silently to hurry.

Inside is an elegant pocket watch, its surprising weight solid in my hand. I flip the cover open, and for a moment, I almost forget how to breathe.

On the left plate, engraved in tiny, steady letters, is

‘For the moments only you could make matter.’

I, a man who never gives gifts, bought her a bracelet with an engraving. She, a woman who trusts no one, gives me a watch with an engraving.

We both chose to mark this...whatever this is...with a permanent, personal inscription. If that isn’t a sign that our broken pieces are cut from the same damn stone, then I don't know what is.

It hits somewhere deep within me, in a place I didn’t know was waiting for her touch. I stare at the inscription, and for the first time in years, I feel completely, terrifyingly seen. She bought it for me. For me. She sees a gentleman where I only see a fraud.

I imagine her hands choosing it. I imagine the moment she filled that blank space with something meant for me.

And then I imagine, absurdly, the empty photo slot on the other side filled one day… with a face that looks too much like hers, smiling at me across years I never thought I’d want, years I don't deserve.

A sharp, hot pressure builds behind my eyes, and my vision blurs.

Jesus Christ, don't. I grit my teeth, forcing the emotion back down, swallowing past the lump in my throat. I don’t cry. But this…this breaks me, it strips me bare.

I feel unworthy, and yet, I have never wanted to keep anything more than I want to keep this watch…and the woman who gave it to me.

She panics immediately.

“It’s future-leaning, obviously. For… you know… your wife one day. And then for your kids, and then theirs. It’s… I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s probably too much. I shouldn’t have—”

For your wife. She’s handing me a future she doesn’t think she belongs in. She’s carving herself out of the picture before we’ve even started. She is standing right there, planning a legacy for me she thinks she isn't part of, and she has no idea that she is the only person I would ever want to share it with.

“Sophia.” My voice comes out rough and steady, leaving no room for argument.

“Don’t ever say that again. It’s perfect, thank you.”

“Come on.” I stand and reach for her hand.

“Where?” she asks.

“You didn’t get a tree this year. So I’m taking you to one.”

We drive to Rockefeller Center, and when we step into the square, the giant tree is towering above everything, dripping with light. She tilts her head back to look at it, and I swear every reflection finds her eyes first.

We stand there in silence for a long moment, and then she leans her head, just barely, against my shoulder.

It’s nothing. And it’s everything at the same fucking time.

“You look–” The word slips out before I can stop it. “Beautiful.”

In the single heartbeat that she stills, I see it. Then her mouth curves, small and helpless, like the smile reached her before her defenses did. She lowers her gaze, hands tightening inside her coat pockets.

“Careful,” she says lightly. “I told you I don’t date. So don’t start selling illusions you don’t intend to deliver.”

I don't rush to fix it, and I don't back down either.