“It wasn’t working for me either. That’s what I was trying to say, but you ran away before I could explain.”
Finn’s voice cracked. “You looked thrilled with Billy. So, I couldn’t hear you tell me you wanted to be with him.”
Maurice’s chest tightened. He reached out and cupped Finn’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly along his skin. “Were you jealous?”
“Yes,” Finn whispered. “That’s exactly what I was.”
Maurice smiled softly. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous. I was upset too. Watching you dance and flirt with so many men… I hated it. After Billy, I didn’t dance with anyone else. I was trying to deal with my own feelings.”
Finn’s brows pulled together. “What feelings?”
Maurice opened his mouth, then closed it again. The words were there—loud, insistent—but saying them out loud felt like stepping off a ledge. He reached for Finn’s hands instead, thumbs tracing slow circles over the backs of them. It grounded him. Gave him courage.
“How I want you to be my boy,” he said finally, voice low. “How I don’t want anyone else flirting with you. I was miserable at the dance.” He swallowed, eyes dropping for a second before he forced himself to meet Finn’s gaze again. “I care about you, Finn. I don’t want to share you.”
Finn’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He didn’t speak right away. His fingers tightened around Maurice’s, then loosened, then tightened again—as if he was fighting the urge to pull away and lean in at the same time.
When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. “I never cared about men mingling before, but with you it’s different.” He hesitated, eyes flicking down to their joined hands. “Flirting feels cheap and juvenile. I don’t enjoy faking it to make a point.”
Maurice’s breath caught. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words tangled. Instead, he tugged Finn gently into his arms, giving him space to pull back if he wanted. Finn didn’t. He leaned in slowly, forehead resting against Maurice’s shoulder, his breath warm through Maurice’s shirt.
They stayed like that for a moment—suspended, the train humming beneath them. Maurice slid a hand up Finn’s back, fingers brushing the nape of his neck in a soft, reassuring stroke. Finn’s shoulders eased under his touch.
“Then tell me what you want,” Maurice murmured, not trusting himself to say more.
Finn didn’t answer right away. His hand curled into the fabric of Maurice’s shirt, holding on as if he needed the anchor. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft but uncertain, as if he were afraid of saying the wrong thing.
“I want us to be real,” he said. “I want you to be with me. No more pretending.”
Maurice’s breath left him in a rush. He brushed a thumb along Finn’s cheek, letting the silence stretch for a beat—letting Finn see the truth in his eyes before he spoke.
“That’s what I want,” he whispered into Finn’s hair, pulling him close again.
Finn drew back just enough to look at him fully. There was a flicker of hesitation with one last guarded breath before he said, “And I want to spend the night.”
Maurice didn’t answer with words. He cupped Finn’s face with both hands, leaned in, and kissed him. A kiss that said everything he’d struggled to say out loud. A kiss that promised he wouldn’t go anywhere. He was staying.
A kiss that meant it.
Chapter Twenty
Finn
Finn’s headache disappeared whenhe was in Maurice’s arms. Maurice brushed a thumb along Finn’s cheek. “Are you sure you want to spend the night?”
Finn nodded too quickly, the movement almost jerky. His chest tightened at the thought of leaving this room, this warmth, this steadiness. “I want to be with you,” he said, voice low. “We can’t waste time apart.”
The words came out rougher than he meant—too urgent, too revealing. He tried to swallow it back, but the panic was already rising, a strum beneath his ribs. Every mile the train traveled pulled him closer to something and farther from something else, and the idea of stepping away from Maurice, even for a night, made his stomach twist.
Maurice’s expression softened. “Sweetie,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Finn’s forehead, “we’ll talk about all of that when we get to San Francisco.”
Finn nodded again, slower this time, but his fingers curled into Maurice’s shirt again as if he needed the fabric to steady himself. He didn’t trust his voice. Didn’t trust that if he spoke again, the fear wouldn’t spill out—fear of distance, of losing this, of waking up somewhere without Maurice’s warmth beside him.
So he stayed close, breathing in the quiet between them, hoping Maurice understood everything he couldn’t say out loud.
Finn nodded, but something in his chest stayed tight, like a knot he couldn’t loosen. Maurice’s presence filled the small cabin—steady, warm, grounding—and Finn’s body reacted before his mind did. His shoulders dropped a little. His breathing evened out. The tension behind his ribs eased just enough to make him realize how tightly he’d been holding himself together.
He didn’t want Maurice to see how shaken he still was, but his hands betrayed him—fingers trembling slightly against the blanket, a tiny tremor he couldn’t hide. Every time the train hit a bump in the tracks, the jolt shot straight through him, sharper than it should’ve been, like his nerves were still wired for danger. His thoughts kept circling back to the card game.
