He hesitates, caught off guard by my tone. It’s enough. I move past him, pushing through a set of double doors and into the echoing concrete tunnel. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, dirt, and something metallic that ties my stomach into knots.
I find the medical bay just as they’re helping Finn onto an examination table. He’s shirtless, his torso a roadmap of bruises, old tattoos, and fresh scrapes. A medic is dabbing at a cut above his right eye.
There’s blood.
Oh god.
But… He’s fine. He’s breathing. And he’s pissed off.
Relief slams through me, and I wobble forward with weak knees, composure barely hanging on. My hand finds his arm without permission, my fingers digging into the muscle.
‘What happened? Are you okay?’
Slowly, he turns his head in my direction. His eyes find mine, and he smiles through the blood. The medic pauses, cotton swab held aloft.
Finn grits his teeth as he adjusts. ‘Dinnae worry, darlin’. Just a scratch.’
‘A scratch?’ My voice is tight and unfamiliar. I lean in to inspect the cut. It’s clean but deep, a crimson line slashing his eyebrow. Blood runs towards his temple. ‘You were down for forty-one seconds. I counted.’
A slow grin spreads across his face, pulling at the cut and making him tense. ‘Didn’t know you cared that much, List Girl.’
‘I don’t.’ The denial is automatic, a reflex. ‘A head injury is a complication we don’t need.’
‘No, we don’t need that.’ His gaze is intense, stripping away my pathetic excuse. He sees the tremor in my hand, still clamped to his biceps. He sees the panic I’m wrestling down. ‘Complication. Is that what you call it when you look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
‘I’m managing a potential crisis,’ I insist, finally dropping my hand.
The skin where I touched him feels hot. I take a step back and lace my arms tight across my torso, trying to rebuild my fortress.
‘Pure poetry,’ Finn says, his voice soft now. He gestures for the medic to continue. ‘Theodora MacMickin, always on the job.’
The medic cleans the wound with an antiseptic wipe. Finn sucks in a sharp breath but his eyes never leave mine. He’s not looking at my professional façade, he’s seeing straight through it.
‘Your eyebrow is going to look like Vanilla Ice’s,’ I say.
‘Didn’t peg you for the vanilla type, MacMickin. But hey, I’m adaptable.’
I shake my head.
Unbelievable.
The medic tapes a strip of gauze over the cut. Finn winces. I should say something useful or comforting. But all I can see is blood. All I register is the phantom imprint of his skin under my hand.
I back off to give the medic more space. ‘You’re in good hands,’ I say, voice thinner than I want. ‘See you in a bit.’
‘Bye, babe.’
I turn to leave and my legs are rubber. My coat’s soaked and heavy, but it’s the weight under my ribs that nearly floors me. A cold, coiled fear I thought I’d outgrown. Teenage me, hovering in doorways, listening for sounds that meant Mum was making it out of bed. That she’d eaten. That she was still…here. That panic. Same shape and weight. Same trap. I go back into the tunnel, heels echoing on wet concrete, trying to put distance between us.
I’ve been there before. Sick with worry and powerless anyway. Holding on to nothing but the fear they won’t get back up.
And I can’t do it again.
Chapter 10
Finn
‘It’s a scratch.’ I bounce my knee, and the office chair rocks with it. ‘And we lost. That’s not a coincidence.’
