"Grief recognizes grief, even when one refuses to show it."
Grief settles in a house the same way dust does; quietly, invisibly, until suddenly it's everywhere.
After Grey's grandmother's funeral, the air felt heavier. Quieter. Like the walls were holding their breath for him.
I sat on my bed, knees pulled to my chest, scrolling through nothing. I kept thinking about his face at the funeral—blank, but cracked underneath. Like a glass that hadn't shattered yet but was close. I'd never seen him like that. And the truth was... it hurt. Deeply. For him.
The next day, I wandered downstairs, feeling useless. Miranda was in the kitchen, humming, chopping something that smelled like garlic and comfort. I watched her move around for a few seconds, lost in thought, before she finally glanced up.
"Oh, Sophie... something wrong?" she asked softly.
I shook my head, smiling. "I... I just wanted to see if I could do anything to help. If you need it, that is"
Her eyebrows shot up; even she was shocked... but she didn't tease me. "Alright then... the more the merrier.," she said warmly. "You can chop the vegetables."
I nodded, taking the knife carefully like I was handling something holy. Miranda stepped out to get herbs from the garden, leaving me alone with a pile of onions that looked back at me like they knew I was inexperienced.
I peeled one clumsily and started chopping. Within seconds, my eyes stung like someone set a match to them. Of course.
Perfect timing too... because that was when Grey walked in.
His footsteps were quiet, but his presence wasn't. He always filled the whole room. He reached for a glass from the cabinet and paused when he saw me hunched over the chopping board.
"You're... cooking?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
I snorted. "No. Just helping Miranda."
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he caught the tears forming in my eyes. "Are you... crying?"
I shot him a glare. "It's the onion. This thing is... too efficient."
A soft breath escaped him, something between a laugh and a sigh. Not mocking. Just... amused. The first trace of light I'd seen in him since the funeral.
Without saying a word, he pulled a tissue from the counter, and reached out. His touch was feather-light as he dabbed the corner of my eye. It sent something warm down my spine; unexpected, but grounding.
"You missed a spot," he murmured, brushing another tear away.
I looked away quickly, heart thudding too loudly.
Grey glanced at the half-destroyed onion. "Want help?"
"I think I can handle the basics," I said, trying to sound confident.
"I didn't say you couldn't," he replied. "Just saying it'll be faster if we do it together."
So we chopped vegetables side by side. It was oddly... peaceful. Comfortable, even, the way our hands moved in rhythm. For a moment it felt like we were just... two people in a kitchen. Not a girl with nightmares and a man carrying grief on his back.
We were talking about absolutely nothing; how terrible onions were, how Miranda somehow made everything taste good, how I was definitely not a natural cook... when suddenly:
"Ahem."
We jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Miranda stood at the doorway, holding herbs and wearing the smuggest smile I'd ever seen. "You two remind me of a married couple," she teased.
Grey and I blurted out at the exact same time, "We're not—!"
Miranda walked past us, chuckling. "Sure you're not."
Grey muttered something under his breath and I looked anywhere but at him.
Dinner was warm. Gentle. And for a few minutes, everything felt almost normal. But normal never stays for long with me.
Later that night, I curled up on my bed, scrolling through my phone to distract myself... but then I saw it.
That Unknown number.
2020503000. The one that always felt wrong. Offbeat. Sharpened at the edges. It seemed like the numbers were carefully placed.
I stared at it for a long while before typing it into a number pattern generator. I mean, for all I know, there must be some reason on why the number combination is weird so it must have an original pattern.
The combinations loaded slowly.
00025300. No meaning.
253000000. Still nothing.
Then...
020052003
My heart stopped.
020 05 2003.
20th May, 2003.
My birthdate.
A cold shiver crawled up my spine.
Only one person had ever used my birthdate like that.
Victor.
My breath hitched as everything connected... the mocking messages, the threats, the way the texts felt like someone reaching into my past and twisting it. If Victor was dead...
then someone was continuing his legacy.
His cruelty. His obsession.
"You must be happy," the first text I remember.
As if my safety was an illusion.
As if he never really left.
Someone must know Victor well enough to act like him. And there was only one person.
Clint Harlow.
And then the worst part... the message about Grey.
"Maybe I should kill him first :)"
My chest tightened painfully.
No matter what Grey said, no matter how calm he tried to act...the idea of him getting hurt because of me... I pressed a shaky hand to my mouth just thinking about it.
I ruin people's lives.
It's what I do.
It's what I've always done.
I lay down, trying to breathe, trying not to fall apart. But when sleep finally came, it wasn't rest... it was war.
---
The nightmares were worse. Familiar hands dragging me back. A voice whispering that I would never escape. Faces screaming. Fire. Shadow. Loss.
At 3am, I jolted awake with a scream tearing from my throat.
My door burst open. Grey rushed to my side, breathless, eyes wide. "Sophie—hey—hey, it's okay. I'm here."
I didn't even think. I grabbed his shirt, fisting it tightly, clinging to him like the room was falling apart. Maybe it was. Maybe I was.
He didn't pull away. Not once.
He sat on the edge of my bed, one hand steadying my back, the other gently untangling my hair from my face. He held me until I could breathe again, and even then... he stayed.
The sky outside softened from black to blue.
Morning creeping in without our permission.
At some point, my hand lifted on its own, fingertips brushing over the pale scar on his wrist. Slowly. Gently. Like tracing a memory, he didn't speak about.
He watched me; eyes unreadable.
And for the first time, the silence between us wasn't heavy.
It was comforting.
Two broken people holding on to each other, just enough to keep from falling apart.
But even in his arms, one thought kept echoing in my mind:
Someone out there wants to destroy everything I touch.
And Grey is the easiest target.
I curled closer to him; both terrified and grateful that he didn't let go.
Not yet.