Chapter 8
Sophia
Sophia woke to the soft hum of her box fan and a low, muffled sound she couldn’t place.
A man’s voice.
Her eyes snapped open.
Maddox.
She sat up too fast, the room tilting before it settled. She rubbed her face, trying to shake off the fog of sleep. Her nightshirt had twisted in her sleep, the neckline sliding off one shoulder, cool air brushing her skin. She padded to the door, cracked it open, and listened.
She’d let him sleep here. In her home.
She’d spent her whole life being the steady one, the careful one, the one who didn’t take risks with her safety. Letting him stay should’ve terrified her, but it didn’t.
A man she barely knew, a man built of sharp edges and danger and something she didn’t have a name for. She should’ve been terrified. Instead, all she felt was a strange, steady certainty that he wouldn’t hurt her.
There it was again.
A rough, strained sound. Not words, just pain.
She stepped into the hallway.
Grim was on her couch, sprawled on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead. His jaw was clenched, breath uneven, chest rising too fast. His fingers twitched like he was reaching for something that wasn’t there.
A nightmare. A bad one.
She’d soothed a hundred patients through fear and pain, but something about his struggle tugged at a place she didn’t let people touch.
Sophia’s heart squeezed.
For a split second, fear flickered through her, raw and instinctive.
Not fear of him, but fear for him. Grim didn’t seem like a man who broke easily.
Seeing him like this, struggling and trapped in something she couldn’t see, hit her harder than she expected.
It made him feel human in a way that unsettled her.
Human was dangerous. Human meant she could care, and caring had always cost her more than she could afford.
She approached slowly, careful not to startle him. “Grim?”
Nothing.
His breath hitched, body tensing.
She tried again, softer. “Grim…”
Still nothing.
She swallowed, then whispered, “Maddox.”
He flinched. His eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused for a second before they locked on her. His breathing slowed, but only barely.
Sophia stepped closer. “Hey. You’re okay.” He blinked hard, dragging himself out of whatever hell he’d been trapped in.
She hesitated, then reached out and touched his cheek.
She’d touched patients before, soothed them through panic and pain, but this was different.
This was a man who carried violence in his bones, leaning into her like she was the only solid thing in the room.
She shouldn’t have touched him. Not like this.
Not when she wasn’t sure she could pull her hand back once she did.
It shouldn’t have made her chest tighten.
It shouldn’t have made her want to touch him again.
Wanting him felt reckless. Wanting him felt like stepping off a ledge she’d spent years avoiding.
He jerked at the contact, then, without meaning to, leaned into her palm. His stubble scraped lightly against her skin, warm and rough. The tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction, like her touch reached a place nothing else could.
Sophia froze, breath catching as she felt the shift, small and unintentional and deeply intimate. He didn’t even seem aware he’d done it, which somehow made it worse.
“Sorry,” he muttered, voice rough. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” she said softly. “I heard you.”
His gaze flicked over her, then froze.
Her light pink nightshirt had slipped higher on her thigh. The hem barely covered anything. Her bare legs were stretched out in front of him, warm from sleep. His eyes dragged up slowly, like he was trying not to look but couldn’t stop himself.
Heat shot through her. Her balance shifting in a way she didn’t recognize. She wasn’t used to losing her footing. Not over a man. Not ever.
The way he looked at her shouldn’t have made her stomach flip. It shouldn’t have made heat crawl up her neck. She didn’t want to think about what it meant that a man like him could look at her like that, like he wasn’t sure he should, but couldn’t stop.
She tugged the shirt down, cheeks warming. “I can make you something to eat.”
He cleared his throat, looking away fast. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” She offered a small smile. “But I want to.”
She turned toward the kitchen.
She didn’t know why she’d said it. Maybe because she’d spent so long taking care of everyone else that the urge to take care of him slipped out before she could stop it. Maybe because seeing him vulnerable had cracked something open in her. Maybe because she didn’t know how else to steady herself.
The apartment felt too quiet, too small, too charged. Her pulse thudded in her ears as she crossed the living room, the hem of her nightshirt brushing the tops of her thighs. She could feel him behind her, not touching, not speaking, just there, heavy and warm and impossible to ignore.
She reached the kitchen and exhaled, steadying herself with a hand on the counter. The familiar space grounded her, the cool laminate under her palm, the soft afternoon light filtering through the blinds, the faint smell of leftover stew lingering in the air.
She opened a cabinet, pulled out a pan, and set it on the stove. The small domestic sounds, metal on metal, the click of the burner, the soft rush of gas, felt louder than they should have.
Her hands were trembling, her chest tight, and the simple act of making breakfast suddenly felt like stepping into something she couldn’t name.
Butter hit the skillet with a soft sizzle.
Sophia let out a slow breath, trying to settle the flutter in her stomach.
She didn’t look back.
She didn’t have to.
She could feel him watching her.
And she wasn’t ready to think about what that meant.
And wanting him — wanting this — felt like the most dangerous thing she’d done in a long time.
The worst part was, some quiet part of her didn’t want to ignore it. Didn’t want the distance. Didn’t want the safety she’d always clung to. Not when he was sitting in her living room like a storm she couldn’t look away from.