He just… looks at me. Not hunger. Not fury. Assessment.
“Morning,” I say, because silence is worse.
“Morning,” he answers, voice rough, like he hasn’t used it yet today.
We stand there, the city barely waking beyond the windows, the building humming with the low thrum of men who didn’t sleep at all. Tomorrow presses in from every direction, a living thing with teeth.
“Doctor says we were lucky,” he adds after a beat.
“Luck’s a funny word for it.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “You were reckless.”
I finally turn. Lift a brow. “You married a woman who brings knives to galas. What did you expect?”
Something dark flickers in his eyes—pride, maybe. Or resignation. “Tomorrow,” he says instead.
There it is. The word lands between us like a blade set carefully on the counter.
“Valentine’s Day,” I reply. “Very on brand.”
“Our wedding,” he corrects, quieter.
I take a sip of water I don’t need. My hands are steady. I hate that. I hate that I learned how to be steady with him.
“Still time to run,” I say lightly. “I hear it’s all the rage.”
“Aye,” he says. “And yet you’re still here.”
We hold each other’s gaze too long. Something unspoken strains, stretches, threatens to snap.
“You shouldn’t have slept in my bed,” I tell him.
“You shouldn’t have stayed.”
Neither of us moves. Tomorrow waits. The city breathes. The silence settles again—uneasy, unfinished. And for the first time since the gala, since the blood and the noise and the hands on me that knew exactly how to calm the shaking, I don’t know who will break first.
Finn doesn’t touch me. That’s the first thing I notice. He stops in the doorway like he’s unsure whether the room will bite him back. Hair still rumpled from sleep. Jaw shadowed. Eyes too sharp for the morning. He takes me in the way he always has—like he’s cataloguing damage.
“You’re up early,” he says.
“So are you,” I reply, though he clearly isn’t. He looks like he woke to the absence of me and followed the pull.
Silence stretches. The city hums faintly beyond the windows. Tomorrow presses at my spine like a loaded gun.
“Tomorrow,” he says finally. Not looking at my face now—my hands, the robe tied tight. “What are you wearing.”
There it is. Not curiosity. Not softness. Due diligence.
“A dress,” I say. “Presumably white. Very convincing.”
His mouth tightens. Not amused.
“You know what I mean.”
I turn, lean back against the counter. The movement is slow. Careful. The kind we learned young—how not to give too much away.
“I know what the families approved,” I say. “I also know I didn’t pick it.”
