Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
FINN
The bell above the beachside grill door gives its usual tinny chime as I step inside, the muted clatter swallowed by the hush of mid-morning drizzle.
The place smells like burnt toast and cinnamon syrup, warm and too sweet, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes even when you don’t stay long.
I don’t usually come here. Too cramped. Too loud. But today, I’m not here for coffee.
I’m here for her.
Lani’s behind the counter, barely holding herself together.
She’s moving slower than usual – no bounce, no edge, just small, tired movements like she’s wading through fog.
Her hair is scraped into a rough twist on top of her head, barely held together by a single black claw clip.
Strands of damp blonde stick to her cheeks.
The hoodie she’s wearing is huge on her.
Not oversized by style – oversized because it’s not hers.
I know it. I know the frayed cuffs, the stretched out neckline, the small rip at the hem near the pocket. My stomach twists.
She turns away to pour milk into a jug, and I watch as her hand trembles. Just slightly. Just enough to catch. When she sets the jug down, she winces like it hurts to lift her arm. Her cheeks are pale. Lips dry. The flush high on her cheekbones doesn’t look like blush – it looks like fever.
She’s sick.
Not hungover, not overtired. Unwell.
And still she’s here, working a shift like it’s any other Tuesday.
I don’t go to the counter straight away. Just watch for a few minutes, long enough to see her drop a cup and curse under her breath, long enough to hear a customer complain about cold coffee and watch her blink, apologise, and remake it without argument. Her hands shake the entire time.
Eventually, I step forward, clearing my throat gently so I don’t startle her too badly. She turns, and I can see the flicker of something like panic in her eyes before she registers me.
“Finn,” she says, her voice hoarse. Brittle. Not the usual dry amusement or wary edge. Just empty.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you here,” I say quietly, trying to keep it light.
She shifts on her feet, reaching automatically for a takeaway cup. “Covering for Pete. He’s got some chest infection thing.”
Her hand slips on the lid. I see it. She fumbles, catches it, keeps going like nothing happened.
I don’t ask what she’s doing here if she’s clearly unwell. I know the answer already. She won’t say it, but it’s there in the hollowness of her eyes – no one else to help her, and she doesn’t trust anyone to try.
“You alright?” I ask.
She flinches, just barely. Like I’ve caught her somewhere she didn’t expect me to be, then pastes on something that might’ve been a smile if I hadn’t seen how thin it was. “Fine.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Thanks.”
I don’t push. Not here. Not when she’s still holding herself together by a thread.
I take the coffee, pay in cash, and retreat to the corner table by the window.
I scroll on my phone, mostly just muscle memory, but my eyes never stop tracking her.
The slump of her shoulders. The way she leans on the counter like she needs it to stay upright.
How she disappears into the back room for too long between orders, then returns red-faced and blinking like she might’ve cried.
I stay for two hours.
It’s only when the shift ends and she ducks out of the staff door with her hood pulled low to cover her face that I move again, slipping out behind her into the rain.
She doesn’t notice me until I catch up halfway up the hill.
“Here,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket and swinging it around her shoulders before she can argue.
She startles. Stumbles. “What—Finn, no, you’ll—”
“You’re soaked.”
“I’m always soaked,” she snaps, but it’s half-hearted. There’s no fire in it. Just resignation.
“Not like this,” I murmur.
She clutches the jacket tighter around her, but she doesn’t push it off. Still, there’s a flicker of something in her expression – like it’s not quite what she was braced for.
That alone tells me more than words ever could.
The climb to the cottage is silent. Her footsteps drag. Twice she stumbles. I pretend not to notice, just slow my own pace to match hers. She won’t ask for help. I get the impression she’s the sort that never does. So I offer it quietly, wordlessly, the way she might actually accept.
When we reach the door, she fumbles the key twice before I gently take it from her and slide it into the lock myself.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“Mind if I come in?”
She hesitates. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, guarded. Then something in her seems to sag, like the fight’s just not worth it today. Like she’d take anyone over no one.
“Sure.”
The house is warm. Cluttered, cozy, too quiet. It smells like mint tea and potting soil. There’s a half-finished blanket folded over the arm of the sofa, a dog-eared book spine-up on the coffee table, and not a single plant in sight.
I glance around. “What happened to the jungle?”
She drops onto the sofa like her legs have finally given out. “Brought them in during the storm. Thought they’d get ruined.”
“Where are they now?”
“Scattered.” She waves a vague hand. “Back room. Kitchen. Bathroom. I haven’t had the strength to drag them all back out yet.”
“Did anyone help you?”
Her voice is tight. “Sol did a bit.”
Of course he did.
She hesitates like there’s something else she could say. Then doesn’t, so I disappear into the kitchen. There’s a tin of hot chocolate in the cupboard and milk in the fridge. I find a clean saucepan and heat it slowly, keeping my movements quiet, controlled. She doesn’t need more chaos.
When I return with the mugs, she’s curled on her side, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, a different blanket draped across her knees.
“Drink this,” I say. “You’ll feel better.”
She peers up at me. “You’re doing a lot of hovering today.”
“You’re letting me, so I’m taking the win.”
That earns a ghost of a smile.
“Now sit still,” I add, more gently. “I’ve got plant duty.”
“What—no, Finn—there’s a whole system, you’ll mess it up—”
“Show me the notebook.”
She groans. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re out of commission.”
She mutters something under her breath but gestures vaguely toward the shelf. I find the spiral-bound notebook, pages worn soft with use. There are names scrawled in different colours – Mabel, Edgar, Arnold – and watering times, soil notes, even mood observations.
“Doris gave them personalities.”
“They have personalities.”
I spend the next hour moving them, one by one. Following her directions, checking the scrawled notes, whispering apologies to the ones I jostle too much. The rain has faded to mist outside, the grey sky just starting to split with silver light. The cottage starts to feel alive again.
When I carry in the last pot – Delilah, a particularly dramatic fern – I find her fast asleep.
Her mouth is parted slightly. Hair a soft halo around her face. One hand curled under her cheek, the other still clutching the edge of the blanket. The empty mug is resting near her ribs.
She looks…small. Not fragile, exactly. Just worn thin by too many days of pretending she’s fine.
I move quietly, sliding the mug away. I adjust the blanket, tuck it around her shoulders, brush a damp strand of hair back from her temple. She doesn’t stir.
I heat a tin of soup and leave it covered on the stove. On the counter, I scribble a note on the back of one of her plant logs:
Didn’t water Arnold. He gave me attitude.
Soup’s ready.
Sleep and rest.
Text me if you need anything —F
I let myself out, soft as a breath.
The rain’s stopped, but the air still hums with it – heavy, briny, expectant.
I walk slowly with no direction in mind, letting the sea breeze clear the fog from my head.
I keep thinking about her. About the hoodie.
The way her body shivered when I gave her my jacket.
The way she flinched when I asked if she was sick.
I’m not interested in the game anymore. Not when she looks like she’s holding out for something she doesn’t even understand. And certainly not with her like this. Not when she’s fading before anyone else can see it.
I should call the bet off. Tell the guys I’m out. That it’s not right.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because something tells me this isn’t over.
I round the corner – and nearly run straight into Sol. He stops short, eyes narrowing instantly.
“You were at hers,” he says, voice low.
I nod. “She’s sick. I was helping out.”
His face twists. Not anger – something else. A flash of guilt, so fast it might’ve been imagined. But then it’s gone, masked under a scowl. He opens his mouth – then closes it again. Shakes his head once and stalks off without another word.
I watch him go, tension bristling off his back like static. That was weird. Even for him.
And I wonder – not for the first time – what the hell happened that night during the storm.
And why no one’s saying a word about it.