My bedroom is small—barely fits the queen bed and dresser—but Finn fills it completely. He looks at the unmade sheets, the tissues on the nightstand, the evidence of how I spent the hours since he pushed me away.
“I did this,” he says quietly. “I made you cry.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “You can be sorry and still be here. Both things can be true.”
He takes his time undressing me, every touch a question—is this okay? and this?—and I answer with my body even as my heart stays watchful. His mouth traces the curve of my shoulder, my collarbone, the soft swell of my stomach that Stephen used to criticize.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every inch.”
I’ve heard those words before. Part of me braces for thebutthat always came next with Stephen.
It doesn’t come.
Finn just keeps touching me like I’m precious, and slowly, carefully, I let myself believe he means it. Not forever. Not completely. But enough for tonight.
When he finally slides inside me, I gasp—not just from the sensation, but from the intimacy. His forehead pressed to mine, his eyes open and watching me.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
We move together, finding a rhythm that’s slower than our desperate nights in his loft. More deliberate. He keeps his eyes on mine, and I want to look away—it’s too much, too vulnerable—but I make myself hold his gaze.
“I love you,” he says, the words broken by his ragged breathing. “I love you, Marcella.”
I don’t say it back. I kiss him instead, swallowing the words I’m not ready to give.
When the wave finally crashes through me, I cry out against his shoulder, and he follows me over the edge moments later. We collapse together, tangled and sweaty, his heart hammering against my cheek.
“I love you,” he says again, softer now.
“I know,” I whisper. “I believe you.”
He goes still. I feel the question he doesn’t ask.
“I’m not ready to say it back,” I tell him. “Not yet. I need more time.”
For a moment, I’m terrified he’ll pull away. That this will be the thing that breaks us.
Instead, his arms tighten around me.
“Okay,” he says, and his voice is steady. “I’ll wait. I’ll keep saying it until you’re ready. And when you say it back, I’ll know you mean it.”
Something in my chest loosens. Not all the way—there’s still a knot of fear that won’t untangle easily. But enough.
“Even when you’re being an idiot?” I ask.
“Especially then.”
The afternoon sunslants through my bedroom window—I never did get proper curtains—by the time we finally talk about logistics. We’re still in bed, still tangled together, my head on his chest and his fingers tracing absent patterns on my hip. The city noise filters in—sirens in the distance, neighbors talking in the hallway—and I feel him tense each time.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“Whatever you want.” His voice rumbles beneath my ear, though I can feel his heart racing—whether from me or the city sounds, I’m not sure. “I meant what I said—I’ll come to Denver when I can, you can come to the ranger station. We’ll figure it out.”
