Finn leans forward, elbows on knees. “Beck, you’ve been slow-simmering this since you came back to town. Last night didn’t create a feeling, it showed you the one you already had. Love isn’t a jump scare. That’s why it feels calm after the mind-blowing part.”
I stare at him. “You’re good.”
“I fell in love.”
That knocks something loose in my chest in the best way. I grin, helpless. “Status report, Dad. How’s life with Her Tiny Majesty?”
“Sticky. Loud. Beautiful,” he whispers. “Like living inside a drum full of honey.”
“That’s… vivid.” I hand him a beer. “Sleep?”
“She believes in power naps and character growth.” He grins. “Spencer fell asleep mid-laundry-fold and woke up wearing a bib.”
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
DOM: Home? Also, your enchiladas have ruined me. Rude.
I show Finn. He smirks. “He’s ruined.”
My panic hides under a layer of giddiness.
ME: Home. Consider me also ruined.
ME: Have breakfast with me tomorrow?
Three dots.
DOM: Yes. Do I bring coffee, or do I trust the chef?
ME: *Eye roll emoji*
ME: Who do you think you’re talking to? Coffee handled.
I set the phone down as if it were a fragile animal, and Finnwatches me in that way he does when he’s being a good friend, surveying the situation.
Finn stands, stretches. “You’re going to be okay.” He slaps me on the shoulder.
“I am verynotokay,” I say, but I’m smiling.
He drops back onto the couch beside me. “Okay, game plan, so your brain stops chewing its own shoelaces.” He holds up a finger. “One: no midnight confessions. Your adrenaline will think you’re a poet. Just revel in whatever this feeling is.” Second finger. “Two: tomorrow, cook breakfast—because you, my friend, speak fluent skillet. Something you only bother with when you care, like French toast andbacon.” I gasp, and he holds up a third finger. “Three: tell him one true thing that’s smaller than the whole word love and see how he reacts.”
“And if he drops it?” I ask honestly.
“Then we tape your heart together with blue painter’s tape and feed you ice cream. But my money says he catches it and asks if there’s more.”
I breathe. The room feels a bit less suffocating. “One true thing,” I repeat. “I can do that.”
“What doyouwant, Beckett?”
I stare at the cutting board before the answer shows up, simple and unadorned. “I want him in my life when it’s noisy and when it’s not. I want to tell him things and have them matter. I want the bench on his deck to have our asses imprinted into it by summer.”
Finn’s smile hits his eyes. “That’s love, babe.”
“Shut up,” I say, grinning.
He bumps my shoulder. “Text me after breakfast. If you panic, remember—breathe, tell one small truth.”
He heads to the door, then pauses. “Also… let it be good. You keep waiting for the trapdoor, but sometimes the floor is just the floor.”
