21. BAILEY
Chapter twenty-one
BAILEY
Amovie should be safe.
That is the whole point of a movie.
Two people sit side by side in a dark room, look forward for two hours, and let emotions stay contained to the screen. It’s structured. Predictable. Contained. There are snacks, assigned seats, and a socially acceptable reason not to make eye contact.
Date three, technically, should be the easiest one yet.
No enzyme baths. No candlelit restaurant. No live music. No dancing close enough to make me forget where Finn’s hand ended and my common sense began.
Just a normal movie on a normal night.
Except nothing about Finn O’Malley feels normal anymore.
That’s the problem.
He is waiting outside the theater when I get there, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, dark jeans, a black knit hat, and a smile that makes me question why I thought a movie would make this less complicated.
He looks too good.
Not dressed-up good. Not trying good. Worse.
Easy good.
Like he rolled out of practice, showered, threw on clothes, and now looks like a direct attack on my better judgment.
His eyes move over me when I walk up.
Not slowly enough to be rude.
Not quickly enough to be innocent.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
His gaze dips to my mouth for half a second before coming back to my eyes. “You look beautiful.”
I narrow my eyes. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No turning movie night into foreplay before we even get tickets.”
His grin flashes, quick and devastating. “So you were thinking about foreplay.”
“I was thinking about boundaries.”
“That sounds like a waste of time to me.”
I stare at him.
He laughs, low and pleased, then reaches for my hand.
I take it.
Because apparently, my boundaries are very comfortable holding hands with the threat.
His palm is warm, fingers sliding through mine like this is something we have done a hundred times instead of something still new enough to make my pulse change.
Inside, the lobby is warm, and the smell of buttered popcorn hangs in the air. Finn studies the movie poster near the entrance while I pretend I did not choose a romantic comedy with reviews that include the phrases beautifully intimate and emotionally devastating.
“Still sure about this one?” he asks.
“It’s a romantic comedy.”
“I’m secure enough to watch a romance.”
“Even if people cry?”
“I’ve seen Knox cry over a playoff loss. I’m prepared.”
We head into the theater with a bucket of popcorn, peanut M&Ms, and a large drink to share.
Our seats are in the back half of the theater, near the side. Good view. Not too close to anyone. Finn lets me go in first, then settles beside me, one arm resting on the shared armrest, his thigh close to mine but not touching.
Yet.
The lights dim.
Previews start.
I open the candy and pour most of it into the popcorn. Finn watches with sudden, serious interest.
“You do that too?” he asks.
“Of course.”
His expression turns solemn. “This changes things.”
“Because I mix candy into popcorn?”
“Because we’re only on date three, and you’re already proving my point.”
“Which is?”
“That we’re compatible.”
That makes me think.
If this goes well, then what?
Does the experiment end? Do we pretend three dates are enough to decide something that has already started deciding itself somewhere between the ocean overlook and my kitchen table?
Finn catches my silence.
His smile softens. “Too much?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He studies me for half a second longer, then nods and turns toward the screen.
The movie starts slowly, which should help. It doesn’t. Two people who used to love each other meet again years later because of a family wedding, which makes me shift in my seat and immediately regret my choice of films. Finn glances at me once but wisely says nothing.
Halfway through, the leads are standing in a kitchen during a rainstorm, arguing too quietly and looking at each other like the entire house might catch fire if either of them moves.
I stop eating popcorn.
Finn’s knee brushes mine.
Accidentally, probably.
Maybe not.
On screen, the man reaches for the woman’s wrist.
I become deeply aware of Finn’s hand on the armrest beside mine.
The theater is dark except for the flicker of the screen. Music builds low, slow, and intimate. The woman tells the man he should leave.
He doesn’t.
Finn shifts beside me. Not much. Just enough that his shoulder brushes mine.
My body reacts like this is not a public place full of strangers, sticky floors, and overpriced snacks.
The couple on screen kiss.
Not sweetly, or softly.
The kiss is the kind that starts like surrender and turns into something hungrier, something years in the making. The man lifts her onto the kitchen counter, her legs wrapping around his hips, his hands under her sweater, her head tipping back as his mouth moves to her throat.
My breath catches.
Unfortunately, I think Finn hears it.
His hand moves on the armrest. One finger brushes mine.
Finn leans a fraction closer, his voice low near my ear. “You’re awfully quiet over there.”
“I’m watching the movie.”
“So am I.” His voice drops another inch. “But you’re holding your breath.”
I inhale immediately, and his quiet laugh brushes my ear, and I hate him a little.
On screen, the camera cuts away before things get too explicit, which is honestly rude at this point, because now I have nowhere appropriate to put the rest of this tension.
Finn’s fingers brush mine again.
This time, I turn my hand, and his fingers slide between mine.
Now I am sitting in a dark theater beside Finn, his hand wrapped around mine, my body warm, my mind full of the very recent memory of his mouth on my neck, his hands on my hips, his voice in the hotel room when he stopped sounding amused and started sounding wrecked.
This movie was a terrible idea.
Or a brilliant one.
Hard to say.
By the time the credits roll, I have retained maybe seventy percent of the plot and one hundred percent of the tension. The lights rise slowly, forcing us back into the real world one uncomfortable bulb at a time.
Finn releases my hand only when people start standing.
I miss the warmth immediately.
“Well,” he says.
I gather my purse with too much focus. “That was a good movie.”
“It was.”
“Beautiful cinematography.”
“Lots of kitchen counters.”
I shoot him a look.
His face is perfectly serious, except for his eyes.
Outside the theater, the night air is cold enough to make me pull my jacket tighter. The sidewalks shine from earlier rain, and people spill out around us in small groups, talking about the ending, the actors, the scenes in the kitchen.
We walk toward my car. I drove tonight after a short shift, showering and changing at the hospital instead of letting him pick me up.
Now, independence feels less like a plan and more like an obstacle.
Finn walks close but not touching. His hands are in his jacket pockets. His shoulder brushes mine once, and the entire left side of my body takes notes.
I stop beside my car and turn to him.
I should unlock the car and say good night.
I should do several reasonable things, most of which don’t involve staring at Finn’s mouth under a parking lot light after a romantic movie.
Finn steps closer, and my back brushes the driver’s side door.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then comes back to my eyes. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
My breath catches. “Are you asking or warning me?”
“Both.” Then his hand comes to my waist, and his mouth is on mine.
I lift my hands to his shoulders, fingers brushing the back of his neck, and the kiss shifts.
His control frays first.
I feel it in the way he makes a sound low in his throat when I part my lips and let him deepen the kiss.
Heat rushes through me, fast and familiar and somehow new.
Finn pulls back, his forehead close to mine.
“We should probably stop,” he says.
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Are we shooting for reasonable?”
“No.”
“Thank God.”
Then he kisses me again, and this time, there is nothing careful about it.
My back presses harder into the car door. His body lines up with mine, solid and warm. The kiss turns hungry. Not out of nowhere. More like something that has been building all night.
A car door slams somewhere across the lot.
We break apart.
Finn’s breathing is ragged. Mine is worse.
He looks at me in a way that makes the whole parking lot feel too public.
“Come home with me,” I say.
The words are out before I can dress them up.
His eyes darken.
“Bailey.” His thumb moves once at my waist. “You sure?”
I could make a joke. I could roll my eyes. I could tell him if he asks me that again, I’m leaving him in the parking lot.
Instead, I tell the truth.
“Yes.”
One word. No excuse. No pretending.
Finn’s mouth finds mine again, hard and brief, like he can’t help himself.
Then he steps back, running one hand over his jaw, and lets out a breath that sounds frayed and raw.
“Okay,” he says. “You drive. I’ll follow.”
I unlock the car with hands that are not quite steady.
Finn waits until I’m inside, then closes my door for me. Through the windshield, I watch him walk to his truck, shoulders tight, head slightly down, like he is holding himself together by force.
Good.
At least I’m not the only one.
The drive is short, but it feels endless.
Every stoplight is annoying. Every turn is unnecessary. Every sensible thought I’ve ever had tries to stage one last intervention, but my body has already voted, loudly, repeatedly, and without respect for any of the reasons my brain comes up with.
By the time I pull into my driveway, my pulse is racing.
Finn parks behind me, and for one second, neither of us moves.
Then he gets out of his truck and walks toward my car.
He waits beside my door while I unbuckle, and when I step out, the cold air brushes my overheated skin.