“I don’t need to give a statement or anything?”
“He said your reports were so thorough, he doubted you’d need to give much of a statement at all,” she chuckled. “Your penchant for over documentation saves you again.”
“Thank goodness. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Tuesday. Monday is Memorial Day.”
“Tuesday,” I gave her a small salute and headed out the front, wishing Lennon a good afternoon.
I texted Dom and Enzo:
Me:on my way home finally. sorry it took longer than I expected.
Enzo:Don’t you worry your drop dead gorgeous self. We’ll clear out for a couple of hours and pick up dinner. What sounds good??
Me:pizza. definitely pizza.
Enzo responded with a thumbs up emoji.
I drove home without music and kicked my shoes off as soon as I entered the door. The house felt different; remnants of my three favorite people having spent the afternoon there echoed in the space. Coffee mug in the sink that wasn’t mine, extra shoes… men’s shoes… by the door, and the faint scent of bergamot and cloves that meant Finn specifically was here, in my house, filling it without making it feel crowded.
I padded down the hall to my bedroom where he was stretched out on my bed, fully clothed except said shoes. His hair had escaped whatever method he’d used to tame it, falling across his forehead. My fingers itched to touch it, desperate to weave between the strands.
The late afternoon sun filtering through the sheer curtains cast golden light over his face, highlighting the faint scarring across the left side and the way his mouth had gone soft in sleep. The tightness in my rib cage finally loosened and I felt like I could take a full breath at last.
I moved to the bed, sitting carefully so I wouldn’t wake him. This close I could still see the trace evidence of exhaustion etched around his eyes. The drive from Wyoming had probably been brutal, especially if he’d had as much sleep as I did and had been drunk when we spoke, which I’d suspected from the slight slur in his words.
I set my phone on the nightstand and settled back against the headboard, the mattress dipping slightly. Finn stirred, golden-brown eyes blinking open slowly.
“Hey,” I whispered softly, reaching out to brush the hair off his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
He blinked again, consciousness returning in stages. I watched him catalog where he was, who I was, what time it might be. Training that would be a part of him forever.
“Better now,” his voice was rough with sleep. He reached for my hand, fingers intertwining automatically. “You cut your hair.”
“I cut my hair,” I lifted a shoulder.
“I like it. A lot. How did everything go today?”
The weight of what had happened this morning hit me like a wrecking ball. My expression crumpled before I could stop it. I wasn’t supposed to breakdown like this, not this fast when we were just carefully starting to talk.
“The FBI is at the office, digging through files and cataloging everything. They took my computer,” I hiccupped a deep, shuddering breath and forced myself to not cry. “Jordan almost took everything from us.”
Finn sat up immediately, pulling me tight against his chest. The pressure instantly calmed me and I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Shit, Alex. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay…” I said into his shoulder, his scent slowing the buzzing in my brain.
“No, it’s not,” his arms tightened around me, one hand moving to stroke my hair.
“No, it’s not. But we survived,” I pulled back to look at him, noting the way his jaw had tightened, muscles flexing as he clenched his teeth. I smoothed my fingers over his brow and down the side of his face. “But I don’t want to talk about that right now. I just want to be here with you.”
Worry flickered across his features as his eyes slid to the side. It wasn’t like him to avoid looking at me. “Alex, I need to tell you some things,” he sat up against the headboard, pulling away, putting space between us.
The shift in his tone surprised me; he was unsure, nervous, guarded. I took a deep breath, turned and sat cross-legged on the bed facing him, taking his hand in mine. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“The medical test results,” he started, voice turning matter-of-fact in a way I recognized as him compartmentalizing. “They were from an endocrinology workup I had back in early May. Testing hormone levels, fertility function, that sort of thing.”
He swallowed and I felt a cold weight settle in my stomach. Not because of what he was telling me, but because of how carefully he was telling it.
