He works quickly. Efficient. Cool hands cleaning shallow cuts, checking bruises, pressing where it hurts and nodding when I hiss. He murmurs updates aloud—superficial,no stitches,you’re lucky—like he’s anchoring me to the room.
Finn watches every second. I can feel him pacing behind me without turning around. Like a caged animal forced to trust someone else with what’s his.
The doctor finishes, hands me a soft robe. “You did well,” he says—not patronizing. Just factual.
I pull it on, tie it closed. Then he straightens and looks past me.
“Your turn,” he says to Finn.
Finn doesn’t hesitate. He strips like a man shedding armor—jacket discarded, shirt pulled over his head, skin marked with old scars and fresh blood. There’s nothing pretty about it. Just damage and muscle and violence barely contained.
I watch now. The doctor steps in, checking him with the same calm thoroughness. Pressing. Cleaning. Assessing. Finn doesn’t make a sound—not when antiseptic stings, not when fingers probe a tender spot near his ribs. His eyes never leave mine.
The doctor straightens. “You’re lucky as well,” he says. “Both of you.”
Finn doesn’t answer. He just reaches for my hand. One of his men knocks once and slips inside like he belongs everywhere.
“Rooms’ll be ready in a bit,” he says, apologetic but alert. “Sorry for the delay.”
The doctor nods, already moving. “They’re not going anywhere.”
He gestures to the bed like it’s non-negotiable. “Lie down. Both of you. Shock sets in after the noise stops.”
Finn opens his mouth to argue.
I beat him to it. “Don’t,” I murmur, suddenly exhausted in a way that feels bone-deep. “Just—don’t.”
That gets him. We lie back without ceremony. No touching at first. Just close enough to feel the heat of each other through the sheets. The mattress dips under his weight, solid and grounding, and I hate how much relief it brings.
The doctor dims the lights. “Rest,” he says quietly. “I’ll check back.”
The door closes. Silence rushes in where gunfire used to live. My hands start shaking once the danger’s gone. Not dramatic—just a tremor I can’t stop. Finn turns onto his side without a word and pulls me in, slow and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he moves too fast.
I should shove him away. I don’t. His arm settles around my waist. His breath evens out against the back of my neck. My body exhales for the first time all night, traitorous and grateful.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper.
Finn hums softly, already half gone. “Aye.”
Liar. Sleep takes me before I can argue—deep and sudden—wrapped in the man I keep swearing I don’t need.
Morning comes soft and wrong. I wake tangled in heat—too warm, too close, limbs everywhere. Finn’s arm is slung heavy over my waist, my back pressed to his chest like this is where I belong. Like we’ve done this a thousand times instead of never at all.
I freeze, breathe, and take inventory. Finn’s bare torso is a solid wall behind me, all scarred muscle and quiet danger, his hips low and unashamed in tight black boxers that leave very little to the imagination. My own lingerie—the deep red set I wore beneath the gala dress—is still on me, straps twisted from sleep, silk warm against my skin.
Intimate, domestic, infuriating.
His breath fans over the back of my neck, slow and even. One thigh hooks over mine, possessive even in sleep. My leg is slotted neatly between his like my body chose him while my mind wasn’t looking.
I close my eyes. This is bad. This is very, very bad. Because my first coherent thought isn’tget away. It’sdon’t move. I slip out carefully, slow and deliberate, easing his arm from my waist like disarming a bomb. Finn doesn’t stir.Typical. Man sleeps like the dead after carnage.
I snag the discarded robe from the chair, pull it on, tie it tight. The fabric smells faintly of him—clean soap and gun oil and something darker I don’t have a name for. I hate that my chest tightens over it. Bare feet on cold floor. Quiet halls. The flat is hushed in that early-morning way that feels stolen, like the city hasn’t noticed we’re awake yet.
The kitchen lights are low. Stainless steel, stone counters, expensive and impersonal. Finn’s taste—controlled, fortified, safe. I brace my hands on the counter, head bowed for a moment longer than I mean to.
Just breathe. Just one minute without him. I straighten, reach for a glass, fill it with water taking a sip.
I feel him before I hear him—the air shifting, the wrong kind of quiet growing heavier. I keep my eyes on the glass in my hand as his reflection appears in the stainless steel of the fridge. Barefoot. Boxers. Scarred and unrepentant, like he woke up exactly as he was meant to exist.
