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Bran exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bloody hell.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The sea stretches endlessly before us, dark and unknown, much like the past I can’t seem to let go of.

I can feel Bran studying me, and when I turn to look at him, a slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. “Sounds like she thought that was quite the romantic notion, Finn.”

I shoot him a flat look. “It’s not like that.”

Bran raises his hands in mock surrender. “Aye, sure. Just a young lad following a mystical stag to rescue a lass, giving her a secret name and keeping it close to his heart for years. Definitely not romantic.”

I shake my head, but Bran just grins wider.

“Doesn’t that make you want to tell her the truth of your feelings?” he presses.

I tense, my gaze snapping to his.

Bran stares at me for a long moment, his sharp gaze studying me. Then his grin breaks through. “You’re ferociously hopeless, you know that, right?”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t bother arguing.

He goes quiet again, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. “She doesn’t know about the tattoo you’ve got on your body? Doesn’t know why you’ve got that, I presume.”

My shoulders tense, but I don’t look up. “No,” I admit quietly.

There’s something closer to concern in his tone when he speaks again. “You’ve been carrying this for years, and when the moment to tell her everything surfaces, you don’t?”

I glance at him; the moonlight casting shadows across his face. “It’s not something I can just tell her. What am I supposed to say?”

Bran raises an eyebrow, and I see the sly grin creeping in. “You could start with,” he says, clearing his throat. Then, in the worst attempt at a Scottish accent I’ve ever heard, he mimics, “Oi, Triona, did ye ken ye’ve been hauntin’ me since the day I met ye? Oh, and by the way, I’ve got yer spirit guide tattooed on me body.”

I stare at him, completely unimpressed. “That was atrocious—a crime against accents. Ye’ve been around me for how long, and that was the best you came up with?”

Bran grins, completely undeterred. “Well, it could use a wee bit of refinement. Maybe if you spent more time baring your soul to me, I’d get it just right. So go on, Finn, pour out your heart. Tell me all your deepest, most tragic thoughts. Hell, cry if you want to add flair. You’d be doing me a great service in the name of accuracy.”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a tragic mess. It’s a miracle you’ve kept it bottled up this long without expelling it out into a soppy confession.”

I shake my head, trying to ignore the way his words hit too close to home. “It’s not like that.”

Bran raises a brow. “Aye, sure. That’s why you look like you might vomit every time she so much as breathes in your direction.”

I shoot him a glare. “Go to hell.”

He throws his hands up. “Fine, I’ll pack my bags and call a ferry to come whisk me away.”

Despite myself, I huff a small laugh. But Bran’s expression sobers slightly as he leans back against the railing.

There’s something deeper in his gaze, like he knows everything in my heart. “You’re just too stubborn to admit the truth to yourself.” He grows serious. “I think you’re scared, and it’s okay to be, but fear is a lousy compass.”

His voice is quieter now, all teasing gone. “You can’t just carry this forever. One day, you’ll have to tell her.”

My only response is a quiet, almost broken, “To what end, Bran?”

Bran watches me carefully. “You tell me.”

“She deserves more than what I can give.”

He shakes his head, a quiet scoff escaping him. “And yet, you’re the only one she looks for when the world starts falling apart.”