Warm skin. Solid muscle. The steady drum of a pulse beneath my fingertips.
“Finn?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me. I’m here.”
Something between a yelp and a sob escaped me.
His hand found my face, warm and rough. His thumb moved once across my cheek, then he simply held me steady until the world stopped tilting.
Then he kissed me, a movement that seemed to cost him something. It wasn’t like before, not the frantic claiming in the chaos. This was slow, almost hesitant; the press of his mouth soft and unsteady. He tasted of salt and exhaustion, but it was a kiss that promised time—as if, even beaten and broken, the only thing that mattered was proving he’d made it back.
His lips moved against mine with a quiet certainty that completely undid something inside me. It was as if he’d kept himself alive just for this.
His fingers curled into my hair, and something in me gave way completely—some last, careful thing I’d been holding onto without knowing it. His arm tightened around my waist, dissolving the remaining distance between us. Against my chest, I felt the slow, steady rise of his breathing—alive, alive, alive—and beneath it, the quiet drumbeat of his heart, unhurried, as though it had all the time in the world.
I stopped holding myself upright.
I pulled back just far enough to see him.
My hands were already on his face—I didn’t remember putting them there—palms cupping his jaw, fingers finding a gash above his temple I hadn’t noticed before. Rough stubble. A bruise darkening along his chin. The particular, irreplaceable warmth of a pulse.
I couldn’t stop looking at him. I kept tracing the same lines, the same angles, the same small damages—not cataloging, not verifying, just unable to stop, the way you can’t stop pressing a bruise. He was here. I couldn’t look away, terrified that the moment I did, he’d be gone again.
“You’re—” My voice shook so hard that tears started to pour out of me. “You’re here—you’re actually—”
“I’m here,” he said, and his forehead came to rest against mine, his nose brushing my nose, his breath warm against my lips. His hand stayed cradled against my face, thumb stroking slowly back and forth across my cheekbone. “Right here. Not going anywhere.”
“How—” The word tangled in a sob I couldn’t suppress. “I saw you—I saw them—you went down and I couldn’t—the boat kept moving and I screamed for them to go back and nobody could and you just—”
“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”
Those two words, and my throat closed up before I could stop it.
Not quietly. Not gracefully. The kind of crying where your throat locks up between each wave and your chest keeps heaving even when there’s nothing left—the sounds coming out of me ugly and animal, my body doing something I had no part in deciding.
“You died!” I cried, my fist connecting with his chest. “You were gone—I watched them take you, and I couldn’t do anything—I just stood there on that boat and watched, and,”
“I know,” he said again, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. One hand pressed my head against his chest, the other locked across my back, holding me together because I couldn’t do it myself. “Hey—hey. I’ve got you. I’m right here. Just breathe. That’s it. Just breathe with me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I thought—” my voice broke. “I thought I lost you before I could even tell you—before I got the chance to—”
He pulled back, just enough.
His hands found my face, both of them this time, tilting my chin up until I had no choice but to look at him. His eyes held mine.
“Tell me what?” he asked.
I hesitated.
The words caught for a heartbeat. Some old, frightened part of me recoiled from the edge.
Then his thumb moved across my cheek. I looked at him—really looked—and felt that fear release its grip.
“I love you,” I said.
His eyes stayed on mine. I felt my chin trembling and didn’t try to stop it.
“I’ve been lying here thinking about how you’d never—” My throat closed around the rest. I swallowed. “How you’d never get to hear it. And I just kept—I couldn’t stop thinking about that. Just that. Just you, not knowing.”
