His eyes widen before they soften, his shoulders slumping. “Come on.”
He takes my hand and leads me down the short hall into the bathroom.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re gonna wash off the dirt,” he says simply, opening the cabinet and grabbing two towels. “Then we’re gonna take an hour or two, curl up on the couch, and mourn the hell out of that loss. When we’re done, we’re putting your brave face back on and finishing the season. Allen Crews gets the ending he deserves, the endingyoudeserve. The one past Alaina trained for years to earn.”
I stare as he pulls his hoodie off, then his shirt, stripping down to red boxers that make me snort a little despite myself.
These men and their signature colors.
“Nice undies.”
He flashes me a look. “You’re lucky I didn’t go with hearts.”
The easy amusement relaxes me, and the way he helps me undress like it’s no big deal—not even batting an eye over Pierre—does me even more good. His careful hands ease the binder from my torso with more reverence than it probably deserves, and when I’m finally naked in front of him, he doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t leer, either.
He looks me in the eyes. Only the eyes.
“Ready?”
I nod, and he steps into the shower and adjusts the temperature before holding out a hand for me.
It’s not like the shower I had with Luc. There’s no heat here. No edge. Just soft fingers in my hair and the occasional murmured check-in, like when he rinses shampoo from my scalp. He holds my bad hand out of the way without needing to be told, and cleans every inch of me like I’m precious, even when I feel like roadkill.
When we’re done and the steam has soaked through my skin and my head is light, I start crying again. He holds me against his bare chest, cooing soothing words as the water runs over both of us.
Eventually, he shuts the water off and wraps me in a towel, gently patting me dry like I might crack more if he presses too hard. He disappears briefly and returns with sweatpants, boxers, and one of his old T-shirts. They all smell like detergent, but a little like him too. He dresses me in his clothes without a word, and when he pulls the way-too-big shirt over my head, I catch the name stitched on the collar from some old youth race team.
Greer.
Seventeen-year-old Alaina would’ve passed out from sheer glee.
Twenty-four-year-old me is trying not to crumble.
He gets dressed and takes my hand again, tugging me into the living room toward the couch.
“Come on. Time to grieve and snack in that order.”
He lies back and tugs until I’m stretched out on top of him, my cheek resting against his chest, my legs tangled with his. He strokes up and down my back in slow, steady sweeps, holding me close with an arm wrapped tight around my waist.
I don’t have any tears left, but the ache still lingers with the throb of a healing bruise.
Finn doesn’t say anything as he holds me, like he knows there’s nothing to fix, only to help me carry. I lie there for a long time, listening to his heartbeat, and letting the weight of everything drain out of me, until I melt against him completely.
Eventually, my thoughts slow enough to let one rise to the surface.
“You mean it?” My voice is barely a whisper as I push up to see his face.
His brow pulls together as he brushes a damp strand of hair from my forehead. “Mean what, baby girl?”
“That you love me.”
His mouth curves into the grin I can never get enough of. “Yeah.” I hold my breath as his eyes warm into adoration. “I love you, Alaina.”
I’m too warm, my insides too tight, but my mind is too dizzy as the words wash over me. I search his face because part of me still doesn’t believe that I can have this, havehim,and still have the others too. “Even if I’m with Luc and Mason?”
“I figured out that love means wanting the best for the person you love, no matter what it looks like. And I’ve seen enough to know thattheyare the best for you, just like I hope I still am too. So yeah. I’m okay with it.” His smileturns teasing. “Also, if my watching them fuck you wasn’t enough to show you that I’m fine with it?—”
