24. BAILEY #3
Finn used to move through rooms like everything bounced off him. Like charm was armor, and confidence was the natural state of his body. Lately, I see the effort beneath it. The carefulness. The way he checks my face after almost everything he says, looking for the exact temperature of my reaction.
I take the flowers before he can second-guess them.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask.
“Dinner at my house. Pasta, salad, bread, and something chocolate from Nora’s because I know my limits.”
“That sounds suspiciously like cooking.”
“It is cooking-adjacent.”
“Do you know how to cook?”
His mouth curves. “Do you know how to trust?”
“Deflection noted.”
I smile despite myself, and some of the tightness in his face loosens.
It’s not the first time I’ve been to Finn’s house, but it feels different tonight.
His place is clean, but not aggressively clean.
A pair of running shoes sit by the door.
A Ravens hoodie is thrown over the back of the couch, and the faint smell of cedar and orange lingers in the air, like he blew out a candle before he came to pick me up.
Finn follows my gaze to the coffee table, where a candle sits beside the remote.
“I blew it out before I left,” he says, already reaching for the lighter beside it. “I’m trying to be romantic, not burn my house down.”
“Look at you, making responsible choices.”
“I’m evolving.”
“Did you panic-buy ambiance?”
“Maybe.”
I bite back a smile.
He points at me. “Don’t mock the ambiance. I’m fragile.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“Not while you’re being fragile.”
He laughs, and for a second, there he is.
My Finn.
The one who makes things lighter without avoiding them. The one who can make me laugh in the middle of everything pressing down on us. The one I fell for before I was ready to admit I was falling.
Dinner is good.
Not fancy. Not perfect. Good in the way food tastes good when someone puts the effort into making it for you. He makes pasta with butter, garlic, parmesan, and chicken. The salad is simple. The bread is warm.
He pours sparkling cider into wineglasses.
“Fancy,” I say.
“Only the finest nonalcoholic bubbles for the mother of my poppy seed.”
I pause with the glass halfway to my mouth.
His face changes immediately. “Too weird?”
“No.” I look down into the glass. “Just new.”
“Yeah.”
The word hangs there for a second. Not heavy exactly. Just real.
After dinner, we don’t talk about car seats or appointments. We don’t talk about vitamins, cribs, due dates, when I should tell my parents, or the fact that half the Ravens now look at Finn like he has personally invented reproduction.
Instead, we sit on his couch with the chocolate cake from Nora’s, two forks, and a movie neither of us watches closely.
At some point, my feet end up in his lap, even though I don’t remember putting them there.
Finn doesn’t comment. He just rests one hand over my ankle, thumb moving slowly back and forth, and keeps his eyes on the screen like this is normal.
Like touching me gently while I eat chocolate cake on his couch on New Year’s Eve is something we do now.
Maybe it is. That thought scares me less than it should.
The movie reaches a scene involving a highly improbable chase through an airport.
Finn frowns. “That man would’ve been stopped by security in twelve seconds.”
“You’re ruining the romance.”
“I’m thinking logistics.”
“He’s chasing the woman he loves.”
“With no boarding pass.”
“You’re very practical tonight. It’s almost like you’re becoming me.”
“That’s a harsh accusation.”
I laugh, and his hand tightens lightly around my ankle.
By eleven-thirty, rain taps softly against the windows. The house glows with lamplight and the muted blue flicker of the television. My body is tired in the deep, strange way it gets now, like pregnancy has added a hidden weight to everything, but I’m comfortable.
Finn disappears into the kitchen and comes back with peppermint tea.
I stare at the mug.
“What?” he asks. “You drink peppermint when your stomach feels off.”
“I do.”
He sits beside me and hands it over carefully. “I can stop remembering things if it’s annoying.”
The tea is such a small thing. That’s why it gets to me. Because the small things are starting to feel harder to brush off than the big ones.
I want to live inside this version of him. Thoughtful. Warm. Present. The man who remembers tea and tulips.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I say.
His eyes search mine. “But?”
I could lie. I could let this be simple. It would be easier tonight, but nothing is simple anymore.
“But I don’t want you to feel like you have to be perfect,” I say.
His face stills. “I don’t.”
“Finn.”
“I’m not trying to be perfect.”
I tilt my head.
He looks away, jaw working once, then looks back. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
My mouth softens despite the ache in my chest. “A little?”
“A medium amount.”
“That sounds closer.”
“I’m trying not to make this harder for you.”
“I know.”
He drags a hand over his hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look younger for half a second. Less like the charming hockey player everyone thinks they understand, more like the man underneath, scared and trying. “I just don’t want you to have to worry about me, too.”
I set the mug on the coffee table and shift closer. “I already worry about you.”
His eyes come back to mine.
“Not because you’re a problem,” I say. “Because you matter.”
His expression changes so fast it almost hurts to watch.
There are words in the room. Too many. Too early, and neither of us reaches for them.
Instead, Finn takes my hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. Not playful. Not heated. Just quiet.
“Happy New Year’s Eve,” he says.
“It’s not midnight yet.”
“I know.” His mouth brushes my fingers again. “I wanted to say it while I still had your full attention.”
“You have my attention.”
The countdown on TV starts a little later, loud and glittery and completely out of place in the softness of his house. We watch the numbers drop, my shoulder against his, his arm around me, his hand resting carefully over mine.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
My throat tightens.
Not from fear this time.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
I think of last New Year’s, when Finn was just a name on a roster, a charming problem orbiting someone else’s life. I think of San Francisco. The hotel room. The test on my bathroom counter. Finn’s face when I told him. His hand catching my tear. His voice saying he was in.
Four.
Three.
Two.
Finn turns toward me before the rest of the world gets there.
One.
“Happy New Year,” he says.
Then he kisses me.
Soft at first. Careful. Because he is always careful now, and I love it and fear it and want to tell him he can breathe.
I touch his face and kiss him back until some of that carefulness slips. Not gone completely. But enough that he makes a low sound and pulls me a little closer.
Enough that, for a few seconds, we are just us.
No lists.
No opinions.
No future pressing its hands against the windows.
Just Finn’s mouth on mine, the rain outside, the new year arriving whether either of us is ready or not.