‘I know.’ My heart aches when I think about what happened to him when he was little more than a boy.
It’s only been a few weeks, but I spent every free moment thinking about, writing posts for, or being with Finn. I don’t need months to see what’s going on here.
This is special.
And…I want him to have a home. With me and Elvis.
Rain beats against the glass with quiet insistence, and the radiator ticks once. Finn’s knee presses against mine and stays there. He belongs here. As though he’s always been part of the furniture, the cat, the mugs. My life.
I should say something and be bold enough to ask what happens after the last game in May. Should tell him I don’t want this to end. But the words lodge behind my teeth like a popcorn kernel. Irritating and impossible to spit out without making a scene. If I say it, I can’t unsay it. And if he doesn’t say it back… Well. Then we’re both fucked, and not in the good way.
It would break my heart.
So I don’t.
He doesn’t either.
But it’s right here between us.
He rests his hand low on my thigh, fingers curling against the seam of my jeans. His touch makes it hard to remember why we ever called this pretend. I press my heel against his shin just to feel him.
Then my phone buzzes on the coffee table. I groan and grab it. Text from Charlie:
Hope you’re making the most of your fake love fest. Come to the office asap. We’ve got a game-changer!!
* * *
She used exclamation marks, plural. Charlie never uses exclamation marks.
Finn leans over to read it. He stills, jaw working through something unsaid. ‘You think it’s about us?’
‘It’s definitely something,’ I say, already standing. I drain my mug.
Finn sets his down beside mine. ‘Let’s go find out.’
* * *
The short drive to Elite Edge takes us through the crawl of Edinburgh’s morning rush. Rain patters against the windshield, blurring the grand Georgian townhouses into a watercolour painting of grey stone.
Finn finds my hand on the gearstick and shoots me a sideways look. ‘You’re overthinking again.’
I keep my eyes on the car ahead. ‘It’s my speciality.’
‘I know. Your forehead gets this little crease right here.’ He taps between my eyebrows.
I hate how he’s so observant and smooth my expression. ‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘It does. And it’s cute.’
Fifteen minutes later, I park my car behind the old factory now co-working space.
The rain’s stopped, leaving the streets slick and gleaming under a bruised sky. The air smells of wet stone and exhaust fumes.
Auld Reekie.
Our floor is buzzing with mid-morning energy as we step off the lift. Edinburgh’s skyline looms beyond the windows, jagged rooftops and moody clouds threatening rain again. February isn’t Scotland’s prettiest month.
Charlie’s perched on her desk, heels clicking rhythmically against the filing cabinet, phone clutched in her hand as if it’s a winning lottery ticket.
