Coralyn arrives first, bursting through the door like a small, enthusiastic tornado. She hugs me so hard I can’t breathe, then pulls back to examine my face with the intensity of a detective at a crime scene.
“You look happy,” she announces. “Like, disgustingly happy. It’s almost offensive.”
“I am happy.”
“Good.” She turns to Finn, who’s hovering near the kitchen with the expression of a man facing a firing squad. “And you. You’re the one who made her cry.”
“Cora—” I start.
“And then drove into town despite crippling social anxiety to win her back.” Coralyn studies him for a long moment, then nods sharply. “Acceptable. But if you hurt her again, I know people.”
“She doesn’t know people,” I assure Finn.
“I might know people. You don’t know my life.”
Finn’s mouth twitches. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Moira arrives twenty minutes later with her mysterious guest—a woman named Elissa who runs the bookshop in town and looks at Moira like she hung the moon. The two of them have apparently been dating for three months, which Moira neglected to mention until right this moment.
“Surprise?” Moira offers, grinning at Finn’s stunned expression.
“You could have told me.”
“And miss that face? Never.”
Dinner is chaotic in the best way—at least at first. Coralyn and Moira discover a shared love of terrible reality television and spend the first course debating which show is the most absurd. Elissa asks thoughtful questions about my blog and seems genuinely interested in the answers.
But I notice Finn getting quieter as the meal goes on. His hand finds mine under the table—not romantic, but grounding. I feel the slight tremor in his fingers.
Too many people. Too much noise. The ranger station has never held this many voices at once.
I squeeze his hand and lean close. “You okay?”
“Getting there.” But his jaw is tight, and he’s doing that thing where he counts his breaths without being obvious about it.
“Do you need a minute?”
He hesitates. A year ago, he would have said no. Would have pushed through until he couldn’t anymore, then retreated in a way that felt like rejection.
“Maybe,” he admits. “Just—five minutes.”
“I’ll cover for you.”
He squeezes my hand once—gratitude, apology, love all compressed into the pressure of his fingers—and slips away from the table. I watch him step out onto the porch, watch his shoulders drop as the cold air hits him.
“Is he okay?” Moira asks quietly, her eyes tracking her brother.
“He’s getting there. He just needs a minute.”
Coralyn looks toward the door, then back at me. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Sometimes. Less than it used to.” I take a sip of wine, keeping my voice casual. “He’s in therapy twice a month now. Learning to recognize when he’s hitting his limit instead of pushing through until he crashes.”
“That’s... really good, actually.” Coralyn’s expression softens. “It takes guts to admit you need help.”
“He’s the bravest person I know.” The words come out before I can stop them. “Not because he doesn’t get scared, but because he keeps trying anyway.”
Through the window, I can see Finn on the porch, hands braced on the railing, breathing in the cold mountain air. In a few minutes, he’ll come back inside. He’ll rejoin the conversation, maybe a little quieter than before, but present. Trying.
