Chapter 20
TWENTY
LANI
I float in and out of sleep like I’m caught on the edge of a tide.
Not fully under. Not properly awake either. Just drifting – aware of warmth, pressure, sound – then slipping again before I can grab hold of any of it.
The sofa dips slightly beside me.
My body reacts before my brain does. My shoulders loosen. My breathing evens. The tight, crawling buzz under my skin eases back just enough that I don’t feel like I’m vibrating apart from the inside.
Finn.
I don’t open my eyes. I don’t need to.
There’s a particular weight to him when he sits – grounded, solid, like the room adjusts around his presence without being asked. The blanket is tucked a little higher around my shoulders. A glass is placed on the table within easy reach. Fingers brush my wrist, brief and careful, checking.
The nausea recedes. Not gone. Just…muted.
I breathe out slowly, the ache at my neck pulsing dully instead of screaming for attention. The heat in my belly settles into something manageable – still there, still insistent, but no longer overwhelming.
That’s when it clicks.
I feel better.
Not healed. Not fixed. Just…steadier.
But only when he’s here.
The thought slides in quietly, dangerous in its simplicity.
I drift again.
When I wake properly, the light has shifted. Afternoon sun slants through the window, soft and pale, catching dust motes in the air. My mouth is dry, but not unbearably so. My head still throbs, but it’s distant now – background noise instead of a blaring alarm.
Finn’s in the armchair opposite me, one ankle propped on his knee, phone abandoned in his hand as he watches me.
“You awake?” he asks quietly.
“Mmm.” My voice comes out rough. “How long was I out?”
“A while.”
That could mean anything but I don’t have the energy to push or demand specifics.
I sit up slowly, testing myself. Still weak. Still shaky. But not on the brink of collapse anymore.
“That’s better,” Finn murmurs.
“You say that like you did something.”
“I did,” he replies easily. “I stayed put. Seemed to help.”
Something warm twists in my chest.
I take a sip of water, then another, surprised by how desperately my body wants it. When I stop, I realise he’s watching me with that same careful focus he had earlier, like he’s tracking data points instead of just looking.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
“Soup. Earlier.”
“And after?”
I hesitate. “…No.”
He exhales through his nose, not annoyed. Just unsurprised. “I’ll sort something in a bit.”
I should argue. I don’t.
That’s new too.
There’s a knock at the door.
My stomach tightens instinctively, a flicker of unease skating up my spine. Finn’s already standing.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
Through the haze of half-recovered senses, I hear voices. One familiar, Finn. The other one…not unwelcome, but louder. Brighter. Koa.
“Hey,” he says, breezy as ever when he catches sight of me over Finn’s shoulder. “I brought supplies.”
I peek around the edge of the sofa as Finn steps aside to let him in.
Koa’s holding a bag like it’s a peace offering and rattling off its contents – grapes, Lucozade, one of those microwave soups that claims to be ‘gentle on the stomach’. He takes one look at me and his expression shifts, the grin softening into something more intent.
“You look like crap,” he says, not unkindly.
“Wow,” I mutter. “Men around here really know how to sweet-talk.”
“Consistency is key.” He sets the bag down on the table. “Thought you might need backup.”
“That’s…nice,” I say, genuinely surprised.
Finn stays standing, just behind Koa’s shoulder. Close enough that I can feel him there even when I’m not looking.
The warmth holds.
Koa glances between us, clocking the dynamic instantly.
“Do you two know each other?” I blurt out suddenly.
“We’re old friends,” Koa jumps in before Finn can utter a word. “Have you got today off?” he asks.
“Apparently,” I say. “Against my will.”
Finn snorts quietly.
Koa’s gaze lingers on my face, sharper now. “Are you working tomorrow?”
The idea makes my stomach roll.
“I…maybe,” I say slowly. “I should. I’m still new. Can’t really afford to start calling in sick all the time.”
Finn’s jaw tightens, just a fraction.
Koa frowns. “Are you sure? You don’t really seem up to it.”
“No,” I admit. “But I don’t really have a choice. Maybe one more day off? At most.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I’m going to be messaging you. So that I can check in,” he says easily. “Text me back. That way at least I’ll know you’re not dead on your kitchen floor somewhere.”
“I’m not—”
“I know,” he cuts in, still relaxed. “But humour me.”
I glance at Finn. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just watches, unreadable.
I nod before I can overthink it.
“Cool. I’ll leave you two to it then. You’re in safe hands with Finn.” He pauses at the door, glancing back at me. “Don’t push it, yeah?”
“I won’t,” I promise. I hope it’s true.
After he leaves, the house settles again.
Quiet. Warm.
Finn sits back down but doesn’t say anything about the impromptu visit from Koa.
Almost immediately, the tension in my body eases another notch, like something inside me has been holding its breath and finally lets go.
I hate how obvious it is.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Better,” I admit. “When you’re here.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Something flashes across his face – surprise, maybe. Or something heavier. He covers it quickly.
“Good,” he says softly. “That’s the goal.”
I lie back, eyes closing again, exhaustion washing over me in a gentler wave this time.
As I drift, one thought surfaces, quiet but insistent.
Sol hasn’t been by.
Not today. Not since the morning after the storm when he moved some of the plants for me.
I don’t know why that matters.
But my body does.
And it doesn’t like the absence at all.
By the next afternoon, I almost feel human.
Not good but well enough to be upright. Clear-headed enough to shower, dress, even sit at the table without feeling like gravity is personally offended by me. Finn makes toast. He slept the night on the sofa downstairs, after helping me up to bed.
I eat half of it without gagging. That alone feels like a minor miracle.
When there’s a knock at the door, I don’t tense this time.
Aisling sweeps in like a gust of summer air, rain jacket half undone, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She brings noise with her. Warmth. Movement. The kind of energy that fills a room whether you asked for it or not.
“There you are,” she says, immediately pulling me into a careful hug. “Jesus, Lani. Finn made you sound like you were on death’s door. And I don’t think he was wrong.”
“I’m fine,” I protest weakly.
She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face with narrowed eyes. “You are not fine. But you’re better than I expected. That’s something.”
“I’ll take something.”
She grins. “Good. Because I brought gossip.”
Finn snorts from the kitchen and pointedly makes himself scarce, retreating with two mugs and the kind of look that says I’ll be nearby but not hovering. Aisling waits until he’s gone before waggling her eyebrows.
“So,” she says, dropping into the chair opposite me. “How long have you been shacked up with our tall, broody, devastatingly polite man who makes soup like it’s a love language?”
I choke on my tea.
“We’re not—”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Because from where I’m sitting, that man is one cardigan away from being your husband.”
“He’s just helping,” I say, heat creeping up my neck while I attempt not to snigger at the thought of Finn in a cardigan. “I’ve been ill.”
“And he’s decided to personally nurse you back to health?”
“I didn’t ask him to.”
“That’s worse,” she says cheerfully. “That means he volunteered…and I heard a certain Butler brother stopped by with a care package too. Care to share?”
I groan and drop my forehead to the table. “Please stop analysing my life.”
“Never,” she replies brightly. “It’s my new favourite hobby. You’ve brought so much excitement to Silver Sands. This place was getting predictable and boring. You’ve changed that!”
She launches into gossip like it’s oxygen – who’s sleeping with whom at the grill, which regular finally got banned for calling someone ‘love’ one too many times, Pete’s ongoing vendetta against the new coffee supplier.
I find myself laughing. Real laughter. The kind that doesn’t hurt my ribs or make my vision swim.
Aisling watches that carefully.
“You’re lighter,” she says after a moment. “Right now. You weren’t when I saw you last week.”
“I had a good nap,” I offer.
She gives me a look. “You’re terrible at lying.”
I shrug. “I feel better today.”
Her gaze flicks briefly toward the kitchen, where Finn is deliberately clattering pans. “Funny coincidence.”
I don’t respond. I don’t need to.
She leans forward, chin in her hands. “You like him.”
It’s not a question.
“I…don’t know,” I admit. “He makes things quieter.”
Aisling softens immediately. “That’s not nothing, Lan.”
“I know.” My fingers tighten around the mug. “That’s what scares me.”
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You’re allowed nice things. Even if they arrive wrapped in tall men with emotional restraint.”
I laugh, then wince as a faint wave of dizziness rolls through me.
Aisling catches it instantly.
“Hey.” Her voice gentles. “You overdid it, didn’t you?”
“Maybe a little.”
She stands, pressing a quick kiss to my hair. “I’m going to head off before you pretend you’re fine again and collapse.”
“Rude…but accurate.”
“Text me,” she says firmly. “If you dip. If you don’t. If you need noise or silence or distraction.”
“I will.”
She pauses at the door, glancing once more toward the kitchen, then back at me.
“He’s good for you,” she says quietly. “Whatever this is. I can tell.”
Then she’s gone, leaving warmth behind her like an echo.
But it fades faster than it should.
At first it’s subtle – a slight heaviness settling in my limbs, like gravity’s been dialled up a notch while I wasn’t looking. Then the nausea creeps back in, slow and insistent, curling low in my belly. I sink back against the sofa cushions, suddenly exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix.
The kitchen goes quiet.
Finn appears in the doorway a second later, eyes already sharp, already assessing. One look at my face and his jaw tightens.
“She’s gone,” he says.
“Just left,” I manage.
“You look worse.”
“I laughed,” I say weakly. “She’s a whirlwind. I think it took it out of me.”
He crosses the room in three strides and crouches in front of me, hands warm and steady as they bracket my knees. His thumb presses lightly into the inside of my wrist, finding my pulse without asking.
It’s racing.
“Lan,” he says quietly. “You’re not going back to work tomorrow.”
“I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can,” he cuts in, not harsh but immovable. “You’re new. You’ve been pushing yourself. You’re sick. End of discussion.”
“They’ll be short-staffed.”
“I’ll cover it,” he says immediately.
My head snaps up. “Finn—”
“I mean it,” he continues. “I’ll work the shifts, pay Pete, whatever it takes. You’re not dragging yourself in there half-conscious again. I think you need to properly reset and recover, not just rest enough to get by.”
I shake my head, the motion making the room tilt. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” His voice softens. “I want to, baby.”
That steals what little fight I had left.
He stands, tugging the blanket up around my shoulders before sitting back against the sofa and opening his arms. Not demanding. Just there.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
I hesitate for half a second – long enough to feel foolish about it – then crawl into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He adjusts instantly, one arm wrapped around my back, the other braced along the sofa, anchoring me.
The relief is immediate.
My breathing evens out without me trying. The tight, frantic buzzing under my skin dulls. The ache in my neck eases from sharp insistence to a low throb. My cheek rests over his heart, steady and warm, and I let out a breath so heavy it feels like I’ve been holding it all day.
Finn stills.
“Is this okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod, eyes already slipping shut. “Please don’t move.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Time blurs around the edges.
Then I feel it.
A vibration. Low. Resonant. Right beneath my ear.
I frown faintly, half-asleep, and shift closer.
The sound deepens.
Finn freezes.
“Oh,” he breathes.
“What?” I mumble.
He doesn’t answer, because he’s just realised what’s happening too. The sound is coming from him. A purr.
Not loud. Not obvious. Just a steady, soothing rumble vibrating through his chest, rolling into me like a balm. My body responds instantly, tension melting, muscles going slack as if someone’s finally flipped the right switch.
Finn swallows hard.
“I—” He exhales slowly, like he’s trying not to startle me. “That doesn’t usually…ahh…happen.”
I nuzzle closer without thinking, my hand fisting lightly in his shirt. “Don’t stop,” I whisper. “It’s amazing.”
Alphas purr for omegas. I’ve never known one to purr for a beta. It’s certainly a sound I’ve never experienced before, but oh my, is it amazing.
The purr deepens. I feel it right down to my bones and the deep resonance soothes something in me at a soul level.
His arms tighten around me, careful and protective, and whatever resistance he had left gives way. I feel him relax beneath me, accepting it, letting it happen.
I drift.
The last thing I register before sleep takes me is Finn’s voice, barely more than breath against my hair.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. I’m not letting this get worse.”
I believe him. I trust him. I like him.