28. Finn
Finn
The cabin sat deep in the pines on private land the club used when things needed to disappear for a while.
No traffic. No nearby houses. Just trees, cold air, and the occasional crackle from the firewood stacked beside the porch.
Inside, I could hear Lucy talking quietly to Kate while Noah babbled somewhere in the background.
I stayed outside. The porch steps creaked beneath me as I leaned forward, elbows braced on my knees, staring into the dark tree line beyond the clearing.
Farther down the road, the prospects rotated watch outside the smaller cabin while Keno stayed here with Kate and Noah. Keeping them safe. That was the point. So, why did everything still feel off?
When Reaper and Lucy had asked me to come for the weekend, I’d agreed too quickly, like I’d been waiting for someone to give me a reason to see them again.
Truth was, I missed them. Missed Noah’s sleepy noises in the middle of the night.
Missed Kate moving around the kitchen in the mornings.
Missed having someone else in the house besides my own thoughts.
The last nine days had been too quiet. I kept waking up thinking I’d heard Noah crying before remembering the house was empty.
I rubbed my palms together slowly.
“She means nothing to me.”
The words still sat badly in my head.
I’d said them because Reaper was watching too closely, and because the club came first. That was the rule. Always. But Kate had heard them, and I’d seen her face afterwards.
The cabin door opened softly. I didn’t turn straight away. Kate moved carefully, quietly. The porch shifted under her weight as she stepped outside.
“You should be inside,” I said. “It’s warm in there.” I glanced back.
She stood near the door with her arms loosely folded, strands of hair catching the porch light. For a minute, neither of us spoke, and the silence wasn’t comfortable anymore.
Eventually, I stood. “Kate.”
She looked at me cautiously. “Yeah?”
I looked out towards the trees before continuing.
“What you heard in Reaper’s office . . . you weren’t supposed to hear that.”
Her eyes dropped briefly. “But I did.”
The quiet stretched between us.
“I said it for Reaper,” I admitted.
She gave a small shrug. “I figured.”
That should’ve made things easier. Instead, it made something settle heavily between us.
Not anger. Something quieter than that. Like she’d expected disappointment from me all along.
“I didn’t mean it,” I said.
Her glassy gaze lifted to mine for a second before drifting away again. “It doesn’t really matter now.”
Yeah, it did.
“It matters to me.”
For a second, she just looked at me. Then, she shook her head slightly. “I think I just read too much into things.”
“You didn’t.”
She looked down at the porch boards. “The bedroom . . .” she started. “The way you looked at me, kissed me.” Her cheeks pinkened faintly. “I thought maybe it meant something.”
I stared at her. It had meant something. A lot more than I’d been ready to admit.
“You do mean something,” I said.
She looked at me again, then really looked, and something in her expression softened before she pulled it back. “You protected Noah and me,” she said. “You made us feel safe.”
“You say that like it’s small.”
“No,” she whispered, “it isn’t.”
I stepped closer, and the porch suddenly felt too small. “You matter to me, Kate.”
The words came easier once they were out. Almost too easy. Because they were true.
Her breathing slowed slightly, but then she took a step back. Only one, but enough to notice.
“I can’t do this right now,” she said. “I can’t keep depending on someone and waiting for it to disappear.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“I know.”
She said it so simply, it left me with nothing to argue against. Her fingers twisted together briefly before she stilled them.
“I think friendship is all I can handle right now.”
Friendship.
I wanted to tell her that wasn’t enough for me anymore. Wanted to tell her she’d already become something more. But she looked tired, worn thin by fear and grief and too many changes all at once.
So, I nodded. “All right.”
She nodded back, like she’d expected me to argue.
“Thank you.”
Kate turned towards the cabin door, then paused. When she looked back at me, her expression was soft again. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I’m glad you came.”
She slipped back inside, and the door shut softly behind her.
I stayed where I was, staring out into the dark woods.
Friendship should’ve felt safer.
Instead, it felt like watching her close a door I’d only just realized I wanted left open.