Chapter 13 #2
He couldn’t save everyone. He’d learned that the hard way. But he could save her. He would. The world took what it wanted. He’d be damned if it took her. This wasn’t about being a hero. It was about not failing again.
Grim cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from Sophia’s laugh, the kind that softened the whole damn room. He needed air. Space. Something that didn’t smell like motor oil and leather and the ghost of her breath from the car.
He slung the duffel over his shoulder. “You ready?”
Sophia looked up from the leather braid Lacey had looped around her fingers. “Yeah. My shift starts at six. I guess we should head out soon, I can go in a little early.”
Grim nodded, but something tugged at him, a memory of Abuela’s kitchen, the smell of cinnamon, the insulated bag she’d pressed into Sophia’s hands like she already knew he’d be there to share it.
He jerked his chin toward the door. “Come on.”
Sophia blinked. “Where are we going?”
“Park down the road.” He didn’t look at her when he said it. “Your abuela packed food. We’re not letting it go to waste.”
Sophia’s breath caught, soft, surprised. “You… want to eat together?”
He shrugged, trying for casual. “She made it for both of us.”
Sophia’s smile was small, warm, and it hit him harder than it should’ve. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
They walked out together, the afternoon sun warm on their backs. Grim carried the bag without being asked. Sophia didn’t try to take it from him.
The park was quiet, a few kids on the swings, a couple walking a dog, the rustle of leaves overhead. Grim found a bench beneath an old oak tree, its branches stretching wide like it had been waiting for them.
Sophia sat beside him, close enough that he felt the warmth of her through the space between them.
She unpacked the containers: arroz con pollo, warm tortillas wrapped in a towel, a small jar of Abuela’s salsa. The smell hit him first, rich, warm, familiar in a way he didn’t have a name for.
Sophia nudged a container toward him. “Eat.”
He huffed a quiet breath. “You sound like her.”
“Good,” she said, smiling. “She’s usually right.”
He took a bite — and froze. Flavor hit him hard, grounding and warm. He swallowed, throat tight.
Sophia watched him, eyes soft. “Good?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
They ate in silence for a moment, the kind that did not feel heavy. Birds chirped overhead. A breeze rustled the leaves. Sophia’s knee brushed his once, light and unintentional, but he felt it everywhere.
Sophia wiped her hands on a napkin. “My family would love you.”
Grim stiffened. “Doubt it.”
She shook her head. “No. Really. My parents… they’re loud, but they’re good people. My mom would feed you until you couldn’t move. My dad would pretend he wasn’t impressed by you and then ask you a million questions about your bike.”
Grim didn’t know what to do with that image, him sitting at a family table, being asked questions like he belonged there.
Sophia continued, softer now. “And my brothers… Mateo, Diego, Miguel… they’re chaos. Absolute chaos. But they’d like you. Mateo would try to size you up. Diego would ask if you lift. Miguel would ask if you know how to fix his truck.”
Grim let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Sounds like a lot.”
“It is,” she said, smiling. “But it’s home.”
He looked at her then — really looked. The way the sunlight caught in her hair. The way her eyes softened when she talked about her family. The way she carried warmth like it was something she’d been born with.
And then he noticed the small silver charm resting against her collarbone, a tiny heart-shaped piece of metal worn smooth at the edges. The surface caught the sunlight in a soft, muted glow, the kind that only came from years of being touched, held, carried close.
A faint engraving curved along the center, not something he could read from here, but something clearly made with care. The chain was thin, delicate, yet the charm itself looked steady, like it had survived things. Something about it tugged at him.
“What’s that?” he asked, voice low.
Sophia glanced down, brushing the charm with a tenderness that told him it mattered. “A milagro,” she said softly. “My abuela gave it to me when I was little. It’s… a prayer you can wear. Protection. Hope. A reminder that you’re not alone.”
Grim swallowed, something tight catching in his chest. “You believe in that?”
She nodded, eyes lifting to his. “I believe in what it stands for.”
He didn’t know why that hit him the way it did, like someone had pressed a warm hand against a part of him he’d kept cold on purpose. Like she was offering him something he didn’t know how to hold. And suddenly he saw it, the weight she carried, the steadiness she wore like armor.
“You’re the oldest,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “Yeah. The responsible one. The one who kept everyone else in line. The one who made sure homework got done and dinner didn’t burn and nobody killed each other over the TV remote.”
Grim swallowed. “Sounds like a lot to carry.”
“It was,” she admitted. “But I didn’t mind. They needed me.”
She hesitated, then added, “Sometimes I think I never stopped being that person. The one who takes care of everyone else.”
Grim’s chest tightened. “Who takes care of you?”
Sophia looked down at her hands. “I… don’t know.”
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. The truth sat heavy in his chest — he wanted to. He wanted to be someone who could.
Sophia packed the containers back into the bag, her movements slow, thoughtful. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For this.” She gestured to the bench, the food, the quiet. “For… slowing down with me.”
Grim didn’t know what to do with the warmth that rose in his chest. Didn’t know what to do with the way she looked at him, like he wasn’t a weapon but a man.
He cleared his throat. “Your abuela would’ve hunted us down if we didn’t eat it.”
Sophia laughed, soft and bright, the kind of sound that settled something in him he didn’t know was restless.
She stood, brushing crumbs from her scrubs. “I should head into work soon.”
Grim rose too. “I’ll drive you.”
She didn’t argue.
As they walked back to the car, Grim felt something shift, small, quiet, but undeniable.
He didn’t know what to call it.
But he knew he wasn’t ready to let it go.