Bullshit.
I wanted to see her.
Make sure she was okay.
Make sure she woke up.
Make sure she breathed through whatever the hell last night was.
I didn’t know what I expected to find when I turned onto her street.
But I sure as hell didn’t expect that.
Finn.
Stepping out of her building.
At six in the morning.
With his hoodie half-on, hair shoved back like he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times, and that soft, stupid, guilty expression on his face — the one he gets when he knows he’s done something he shouldn’t be apologizing for, but is anyway.
My foot slammed the brake so hard the coffee jerked sideways in the cup holder.
Finn froze when he saw my truck.
For one second.
One heartbeat.
The exact amount of time it takes for jealousy to turn into something sharper.
He didn’t wave.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t explain.
He just looked...wrecked.
Then he jogged down the steps and past my truck, eyes fixed on the sidewalk like he couldn’t bear to look at me again.
I didn’t follow.
I didn’t shout after him.
I didn’t ask, “Were you with her?”
Or worse — “Did she need you instead of me?”
I sat there gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.
By the time I reached the arena, I’d shoved the coffee into the trash.
Because the idea of showing up with it now made bile rise in my throat.
And then I walked into the building and saw her — pale, sleepless, flinching at shadows — and saw Finn looking at her with that soft concern...
And I knew I’d been right.
