Something warm, solid, and right settled in his chest.
Mr. Santos sighed, but it wasn’t annoyed. More resigned. “All right. But you two behave. And, Finn, if you change your mind, you’re welcome to come back.”
Finn grinned. “I won’t.”
Maurice leaned toward him. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Finn followed him out of the room, pulse racing, terrifying in the best way. “Where are we going?” Finn asked.
“I’d like to talk to you in my room. Would you be comfortable with that?” Maurice asked as he led Finn out of the Party Car.
“Yes.”
Maurice’s cabin was small but somehow still felt warm—soft lighting, neatly folded blankets, the faint scent of cedar from the built-in drawers. Finn moved inside and felt the door click shut behind him, and suddenly the noise of the train faded into something distant and harmless.
He sat on the edge of the bed because he didn’t trust his legs to keep him upright. Being alone with Maurice made everything inside him feel too bright.
Maurice moved closer, not crowding him, but nearby. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Finn said, though his voice came out a little thin. “Just decompressing. It’s a lot out there.”
Maurice eased down beside him, their knees touching. The contact was grounding. “You looked overwhelmed.”
“I’m used to people flirting with me,” Finn admitted. “But not all at once. And not when I’m trying to focus on one person.”
Maurice’s head tilted slightly. “One person?”
Finn’s cheeks warmed. “You. I thought that was obvious.”
Maurice let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “I wasn’t sure, because you disappeared earlier.”
“I got pulled into conversations,” Finn said. “And then I thought maybe you weren’t interested.”
Maurice reached out and touched Finn’s thigh, above the knee. “I was interested. Still am.”
Finn closed his eyes, reveling in the gentle warmth of Maurice’s touch. “Okay. Good.”
Maurice leaned back against the wall, stretching his legs out so their ankles brushed. “Tell me something real about you. Not the version you give strangers.”
Finn looked around the cabin, searching for something to anchor himself. His gaze landed on a folded Marine-issue blanket tucked neatly on the top shelf—standard train bedding, but the way Maurice had folded it was too precise, too practiced.
Finn nodded toward it. “You fold things as if someone taught you to do it perfectly.”
Maurice followed his gaze, then laughed. “Old habits. My dad used to make me redo my bed until the corners were sharp enough to cut someone.”
Finn winced. “That sounds… intense.”
“It was.” Maurice rubbed the back of his neck, fingers lingering there as if he was working out old tension. “My entire family was in the Marines. Everyone assumed I’d follow. I didn’t.”
Finn stayed quiet, letting Maurice choose how much to share.
“There was this moment,” Maurice said slowly, “when I was eighteen. My dad put enlistment papers in front of me at the kitchen table. Didn’t yell. Didn’t threaten. Just waited.” He paused, eyes distant. “I remember staring at the pen and realizing that if I signed, I’d be living someone else’s life. And if I didn’t, I’d lose them.”
Finn’s breath stuttered. “You chose yourself.”
Maurice nodded once. “Yeah. And they didn’t take it well.”
Finn reached out and touched Maurice’s forearm, fingers curling lightly around the muscle there. Maurice didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into the touch.
