Chapter 19
NINETEEN
FINN
She shouldn’t be here.
I know that the second I see her.
Lani’s behind the counter, apron tied crooked, hair scraped back too tight like she was trying to hold herself together with it. There’s a flush high on her cheeks that doesn’t belong there, and the way she’s bracing one hand against the espresso machine tells me she’s using it to stay upright.
It’s mid-morning. The café’s busy in that steady, relentless way – locals, tourists, the low hum of conversation and clinking cups – but she moves through it like she’s underwater.
Slow. Careful. Wrong.
I don’t go straight to her. I watch. Again.
She reaches for a mug and misses it by half an inch.
Laughs it off when someone makes a joke.
Keeps going. But there’s a tremor in her hands now she’s not hiding, and when she bends to grab milk from the fridge, she has to pause there longer than necessary, head bowed like she’s trying not to black out.
That tight, buzzing feeling crawls up my spine.
This isn’t stubbornness. This isn’t pride.
This is someone running on empty because stopping feels more dangerous than collapsing.
She straightens too fast.
And that’s when it happens.
Her knees buckle like the floor’s dropped out from under her.
I’m already moving.
I cross the space in two strides and catch her before she hits the tiles, one arm around her back, the other gripping her forearm hard enough to steady us both.
“Hey…Lani.”
Her head lolls briefly against my shoulder. She smells wrong – too warm, too sharp, like her body’s burning through fuel it doesn’t have.
“I’m fine,” she murmurs automatically.
She isn’t.
Her eyes flutter, unfocused, and her fingers clutch weakly at my sleeve like she’s anchoring herself to me by instinct alone.
That does something to me. Something cold and furious.
“Pete,” I say calmly, already steering her toward a chair. “She’s done for today.”
“What? She only just started—” Pete looks up from the till, concern cutting through his usual bluster when he sees her half collapsed in my arms.
“She nearly went down,” I interrupt, still gentle, still controlled. “She needs to sit. Now.”
Lani tries to protest. Of course she does. “I can—Finn, I’m okay, I just—”
“You’re not,” I say quietly, meeting her eyes. Not arguing. Not coaxing. Just stating a fact.
She stills.
Pete hesitates, torn between staffing and sense. I don’t give him time to waffle.
“I’ll cover the shifts,” I add. “If I can’t, I’ll pay for cover. Whatever it costs.”
“That’s not—” Pete starts.
“I insist.”
Something in my tone lands, because Pete sighs and nods. “Alright. Alright. Two days. Minimum. I’ll mark it as sick leave.”
Lani’s mouth opens. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I say, low enough only she can hear. “And you’re not arguing this one.”
She slumps back in the chair like the fight’s finally gone out of her, colour draining from her face now the adrenaline’s worn off.
I grab her jacket, shrug it around her shoulders, and guide her carefully toward the door.
Outside, the air’s cool and damp. She shivers immediately.
“Easy,” I murmur, tightening my grip when she stumbles again. “I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t protest this time.
The walk up the hill is slow. Measured. I keep my pace deliberately even, adjusting without comment when she drags. She leans into me more than she probably realises, and I let her.
At her door, she fumbles for her keys with numb fingers. I take them gently from her hand and unlock the door myself, getting a feeling of Déjà vu once more.
Inside, the house smells faintly of herbs and clean linen. Quiet. Safe.
I steer her to the sofa and help her sit, then kneel in front of her without thinking, scanning her face.
“You dizzy?” I ask.
She nods. “A bit.”
“Nauseous?”
“…yeah.”
“Cold?”
She hesitates. “And hot. Both.”
That prickling feeling in my chest sharpens. I don’t like this. I don’t like how specific it is.
“Okay,” I say calmly. “You’re lying down. Blanket. Fluids. No arguing.”
She huffs weakly. “Bossy.”
“Only when necessary.”
I settle her on the sofa, tuck the blanket around her shoulders, then head for the kitchen. Water. Electrolytes. Something easy to eat. I move like I’ve done this before, because I have. Because when people I care about fall apart, I handle the logistics so they don’t have to.
When I come back, she’s watching me with heavy-lidded eyes.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she murmurs.
“I know,” I reply. “I wanted to.”
Her gaze lingers on me, unfocused but intent. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s deeper than embarrassment now. More vulnerable.
“Stay,” she says softly. Not a request. Not quite.
Something in my chest tightens.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
And I mean it.
For now, at least.