I want to scream. I want to grab him by his flannel shirt and demand he talk to me, look at me, acknowledge that something seismic shifted between us and pretending it didn’t won’t make it go away.
Instead, I plate the pasta and carry it to the table without a word.
We eat. The food tastes like nothing.
After dinner, I retreat to the couch while Finn cleans up. The fire burns low, casting long shadows across the ranger station. Outside, the storm has settled into a steady roar, relentless but no longer violent. Like it’s digging in for the long haul.
I’m staring into the flames when I feel him approach.
“Marcella.”
His voice is rough. I don’t look up.
“I’m sorry.”
That gets my attention. I turn to find him standing a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, looking more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen him. Which is saying something.
“For what?” I ask. “For kissing me? Or for acting like it was a war crime afterward?”
He flinches. Good.
“For pulling away.” He takes a breath, and I watch him struggle to find words. “Not for the kiss. I’m not sorry for that. I’m sorry for—” He gestures vaguely. “After.”
“You panicked.”
“Yeah.”
“Because you’re scared.”
“Yeah.”
I wait. He doesn’t continue.
“Finn.” I stand, closing some of the distance between us. “I’m not asking you to have everything figured out. I’m not asking for promises or commitment or anything you can’t give. But I need you to talk to me. Not shut me out.”
“I don’t know how to do this.” The words come out ragged. “I’ve spent four years making sure I wouldn’t have to. And then you show up in my kitchen making short ribs, and you look at me like I’m—” He stops. Swallows. “Like I’m not broken. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You’re not broken.”
“I am.” He says it like a fact. Like stating the weather. “I have nightmares. Panic attacks. I can barely handle going into town without feeling like the walls are closing in. I’m not—” His voice cracks. “I’m not someone you should want.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Not because they hurt me, but because I can hear how much he believes them. How deeply the lie has taken root.
I close the remaining distance between us. He tenses but doesn’t back away.
“You don’t get to decide what I should want.” My voice is quiet but firm. “You don’t get to make that choice for me. I’m a grown woman, Finn. I’ve survived my own damage.”
“Do you know what you’re getting into?”
The question lands hard.Do I? Do I really?
I think about the panic attack I witnessed. The way he pulled away after our first kiss like I’d burned him. The four years of isolation, the nightmares he mentioned, the leg that still aches from shrapnel that should have killed him.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t know exactly what I’m getting into. How could I?”
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe, or resignation.
“But I know I’m not ready to walk away,” I continue, and his eyes snap back to mine. “I know that whatever this is, it’s not nothing. And I know that you’re the first person in a long time who’s made me feel like maybe I’m not too much.”
