Page 112 of Grim

Sophia stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He froze, then folded around her, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’re allowed to hurt,” she whispered. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Grim’s voice was a rasp. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“You’re doing it,” she murmured. “With me.”

He held her tighter.

For the first time since he’d carried her out of that cage, Grim let himself lean.

And for the first time since she’d been taken, Sophia held him up.

Chapter 37

Sophia

A week passed.

A week of sawdust and hammering, of scorched walls being torn down and rebuilt stronger, thicker, reinforced with steel plates and new security systems. The Saints worked from dawn until long after sunset, sweat and grief mixing into something that looked like determination. The smell of fresh lumber clung to the air around the clubhouse, mixing with the faint ghost of smoke that still lingered from the attack.

Brick, Ghost, and Vandal handled most of the grunt work: hauling lumber, replacing boards, clearing debris.

The clubhouse would rise again.

But Grim didn’t stay there. He stayed with Sophia. Always. She didn’t ask him to; she couldn’t. But the thought of being alone in the dark made her chest tighten.

Her little house, soft and warm, smelling faintly of vanilla, cinnamon, and old books, became their refuge. The first couple of nights, Grim had stood in her doorway like he expected someone to rip her away again. He checked the locks three times. He didn’t trust the world anymore. Not with her.

He walked the perimeter twice. He slept on the side of her bed closest to the door, one arm always around her, even in sleep. He didn’t say it out loud, but she knew: He was terrified to let her out of his sight. And she didn’t blame him.

Sophia struggled too. Trauma lived in her bones now, in the way her breath hitched when a door slammed too hard, in the way she flinched at the sound of motorcycles revving in the distance. Some nights she woke up gasping, hands shaking, the memory of cold metal bars closing in around her. Grim would pull her into his chest, whispering, “I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m right here,” until her breathing steadied.

Other nights, Grim jolted awake, drenched in sweat, eyes wild, reaching for her like he expected her to be gone. Sophia would cup his face, whispering, “Estoy aquí, Maddox. I’m here,” until the panic drained from his eyes and he collapsed against her, breathing her in like she was oxygen.

They healed each other slowly. Painfully. Beautifully.

The Saints came by every day. They carried Switchblade’s absence with them, in the quiet moments, in the tired eyes, in the way they worked without complaint. They didn’t hover. They didn’t pity. They simply showed up, quietly, consistently — like family.

Stone brought food and updates on the rebuild, his voice steady even when his eyes softened with worry. He stood on her porch one afternoon, boots dusty, cut streaked with sawdust, a container of lasagna in one hand.

“We’re reinforcing the north wall today,” he said. “New steel plates came in this morning.”

Sophia nodded, trying to picture it. “Good.”

Stone hesitated — just a beat — then added, “And… we’re building the medical room.”

Sophia blinked. “You are?”

Stone’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. “It was your idea. Figured it was time we stopped patching people up in the kitchen.”

Sophia huffed a soft, surprised laugh. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

“We want you to look at it,” Stone said. “Tell us what we’re missing. What we need. How it should be set up.”

Sophia’s breath caught. “Stone… I don’t know if I’m—”

“You don’t have to come today,” he said gently. “Or tomorrow. Or next week. But when you’re ready… it’s yours. You tell us what to put in it. You tell us how to build it right.”