Chapter 9
MARCELLA
So much for that illuminating conversation about trying together.
Instead of actually trying—together, his words—Finn retreats into himself; checking systems that don’t need checking, adjusting logs that are burning fine, doing anything to avoid being in the same space as me.
So I give him room. What else can I do? He said he’d try, but trying apparently looks like avoiding eye contact while the tension between us grows thick enough to choke on.
We make dinner in loaded silence. I throw together pasta with garlic and olive oil—simple, impossible to mess up—while he sets the table with careful precision, not a utensil out of alignment.
Every time we pass each other in the small kitchen, the air crackles. His hand brushes my hip reaching for a pot, and we both freeze like we’ve been burned.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and puts three feet of distance between us.
I want to scream. I want to grab him by his flannel shirt and demand he talk to me, look at me, acknowledge that something seismic shifted between us and pretending it didn’t won’t make it go away.
Instead, I plate the pasta and carry it to the table without a word.
We eat. The food tastes like nothing.
After dinner, I retreat to the couch while Finn cleans up. The fire burns low, casting long shadows across the ranger station. Outside, the storm has settled into a steady roar, relentless but no longer violent. Like it’s digging in for the long haul.
I’m staring into the flames when I feel him approach.
“Marcella.”
His voice is rough. I don’t look up.
“I’m sorry.”
That gets my attention. I turn to find him standing a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, looking more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen him. Which is saying something.
“For what?” I ask. “For kissing me? Or for acting like it was a war crime afterward?”
He flinches. Good.
“For pulling away.” He takes a breath, and I watch him struggle to find words. “Not for the kiss. I’m not sorry for that. I’m sorry for—” He gestures vaguely. “After.”
“You panicked.”
“Yeah.”
“Because you’re scared.”
“Yeah.”
I wait. He doesn’t continue.
“Finn.” I stand, closing some of the distance between us. “I’m not asking you to have everything figured out. I’m not asking for promises or commitment or anything you can’t give. But I need you to talk to me. Not shut me out.”
“I don’t know how to do this.” The words come out ragged. “I’ve spent four years making sure I wouldn’t have to. And then you show up in my kitchen making short ribs, and you look at me like I’m—” He stops. Swallows. “Like I’m not broken. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You’re not broken.”
“I am.” He says it like a fact. Like stating the weather. “I have nightmares. Panic attacks. I can barely handle going into town without feeling like the walls are closing in. I’m not—” His voice cracks. “I’m not someone you should want.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Not because they hurt me, but because I can hear how much he believes them. How deeply the lie has taken root.
I close the remaining distance between us. He tenses but doesn’t back away.
“You don’t get to decide what I should want.” My voice is quiet but firm. “You don’t get to make that choice for me. I’m a grown woman, Finn. I’ve survived my own damage.”
“Do you know what you’re getting into?”
The question lands hard. Do I? Do I really?
I think about the panic attack I witnessed. The way he pulled away after our first kiss like I’d burned him. The four years of isolation, the nightmares he mentioned, the leg that still aches from shrapnel that should have killed him.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t know exactly what I’m getting into. How could I?”
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe, or resignation.
“But I know I’m not ready to walk away,” I continue, and his eyes snap back to mine. “I know that whatever this is, it’s not nothing. And I know that you’re the first person in a long time who’s made me feel like maybe I’m not too much.”
“You’re not.” His voice is rough. “You’re not too much. You’re—“ He stops, struggling for words. “I’d rather be scared with you than go back to being alone. I know that’s not fair to say. I know we barely know each other. But it’s true.”
There it is again. That terrifying honesty. That raw, unguarded thing he keeps offering me.
Part of me wants to match it. Wants to say me too and I’m falling for you and all the reckless, hopeful things that are building in my chest.
But I’ve been reckless before. I’ve fallen before. And I know how that story ends.
“I can’t give you that yet,” I tell him quietly. “I want to. But I can’t just... leap. Not again.”
He nods slowly, and I brace for him to pull away. To decide I’m not worth the effort if I can’t meet him where he is.
Instead, he reaches up and touches my face. Gentle. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.
“Then don’t leap,” he says. “Just stay. Tonight. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
It’s not a declaration. It’s not a demand. It’s just an invitation.
And despite every warning bell in my head, I find myself nodding.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Tonight.”
Something shifts in his eyes—relief, maybe, or hope. Then he’s kissing me, and I stop thinking about tomorrow.
It’s nothing like before—tentative and questioning. This is decisive. This is a man who’s made a choice and is following through. His hands frame my face, tilting my head back, and his mouth moves over mine with a hunger that sends heat flooding through my entire body.
I grab fistfuls of his flannel and pull him closer. He groans against my lips—a low, desperate sound that vibrates through me—and suddenly we’re moving, stumbling toward the stairs, toward the loft bedroom I’ve been sleeping in alone.
We don’t make it far.
He presses me against the wall at the base of the stairs, his body a solid wall of heat against mine. His thigh slides between my legs, and I gasp at the pressure, the friction, the sheer overwhelming presence of him.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my throat. “If you want me to stop, tell me now.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Something breaks loose in him at that. His hands slide under my sweater, rough palms against soft skin, and I’m arching into his touch like I’ve been starving for it. Maybe I have. Maybe we both have.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gray eyes dark with want. “Upstairs.”
One word. A command.
I take his hand and lead him up.
The loft bedroom is cold, the fire’s warmth not quite reaching this high. I barely notice. Finn’s hands are on me, pulling my sweater over my head, and the way he looks at me in the dim light makes every insecurity I’ve ever had evaporate like morning frost.
“God,” he breathes. “Look at you.”
I’m standing in my bra and jeans, my arms fighting the urge to cross over my stomach, my soft belly, all the places Stephen used to criticize. But Finn’s gaze moves over me like I’m something precious. Something beautiful.
“You’re perfect,” he says, and his voice cracks on the word.
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He steps closer, runs his hands down my sides, over the curve of my hips. “Every inch. Perfect.”
He says it like he means it. Like he needs me to believe it.
I reach for his shirt, fumbling with buttons until he takes over, shrugging it off to reveal the body I’ve been imagining since he first walked through that door.
Broad chest, defined muscles, and the scars—God, the scars.
They map his left side like a constellation, trailing from his ribs down past the waistband of his jeans.
I trace them with my fingers, and he goes completely still.
“These don’t change anything,” I tell him quietly. “They’re part of you. And I want all of you.”
His exhale shudders through him. Then he’s kissing me again, lowering me onto the bed, and the weight of him above me feels like coming home.
He takes his time. That’s what undoes me most—the patience of it, the deliberate worship. His mouth travels from my lips to my jaw to my throat, leaving heat in its wake. My bra disappears, and his hands cup my breasts with a reverence that makes my eyes sting.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin. “So soft. How could anyone—” He stops himself. Kisses the curve of my breast instead. “You’re incredible.”
“Finn—”
“I mean it.” His thumb brushes over my nipple, and I arch into the sensation. “I’ve been watching you move around my kitchen, my house, trying not to think about this. About touching you. Tasting you.” His voice drops lower. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”
I’m gasping, writhing, trying to pull him closer.
But he won’t be rushed. He maps every inch of me with his hands and mouth, pausing at the places I’ve always hated—my belly, my thighs—and giving them extra attention until I stop flinching and start arching into his touch.
His big hands span my hips like they were made to hold me, and I’ve never felt more desired.
“Perfect,” he says as he slides my jeans down my hips until they end up on the floor. “Every curve. Every inch. Perfect.”
He parts my thighs, settling between them, and the denim of his jeans scrapes against my sensitive skin. He watches my face as he presses the heel of his palm against my core, a slow, deliberate pressure that has me seeing stars.
“Right there?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
I can only nod, breathless.
He keeps the pressure steady. “Does this feel good, Marcella?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes.”
“Good.” He shifts, sliding lower. “Because I’m going to make you feel even better.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, dragging them down. And then he’s looking at me—all of me—and there’s no judgment in his gaze, only hunger.
“Finn...”
“Let me take care of you,” he says, and his breath is warm against me. “Let me show you.”
I’ve never been this exposed. This vulnerable. But when he looks at me like that, like I’m something to be savored, I can’t find it in myself to be ashamed.