Chapter 16
MARCELLA
The apartment door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly my familiar space feels completely different.
Finn stands just inside the threshold, looking as out of place as a wolf in a pet shop.
He’s breathing too fast, his hands clenched at his sides, and I realize—really realize—what it cost him to come here.
Denver. Cities. Crowds. Everything that triggers his worst anxiety, and he drove through all of it for me.
“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll make tea. And then we’re going to talk.”
He nods and lowers himself onto my secondhand sofa, looking too large for the space, too wild for my small Denver apartment. I escape to the kitchen and take my time with the kettle, letting my hands shake where he can’t see them.
I bring two mugs back to the living room and hand him one before settling on the opposite end of the couch. The distance feels necessary. Safe.
“Talk,” I say.
So he does.
He tells me about the empty ranger station, how it felt like a tomb the moment my taillights disappeared.
About calling Moira, and what she told him—Jimmy’s words at his homecoming, the fear that Finn would “disappear” into himself.
About lying awake all night, staring at the ceiling, realizing that pushing me away didn’t protect either of us.
It just guaranteed the loss he was trying to avoid.
“I thought I was being noble,” he says, staring into his untouched tea. “Saving you from having to deal with my damage. But that’s not what I was doing. I was just... scared. And I made you pay for it.”
“Yes,” I say. “You did.”
He flinches, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend himself.
“I’ve spent four years convincing myself that isolation was the answer,” he continues.
“That if I didn’t let anyone close, I couldn’t lose anyone else.
But last night, alone in that house that still smelled like you—“ His voice cracks. “I realized I’d already lost you. And it was worse. It was so much worse than anything I was afraid of.”
I don’t respond. I’m not ready to make this easy for him.
“So I got in the truck,” he says. “And I drove. Three hours of panic attacks and counting breaths and pulling over twice because I couldn’t see straight.
And the whole time, I kept thinking—what if she won’t let me in?
What if I ruined it? What if I have to drive back to that empty house knowing I had something real and I destroyed it? ”
“What made you keep driving?”
He looks at me then, those gray eyes raw and unguarded. “You. The way you looked at me like I was worth knowing. The way you cooked in my kitchen like you belonged there. The way you—” He stops. Swallows. “The way you made me want to be better. Not fixed. Just... better.”
The words land somewhere deep, in a place I’ve been protecting since the divorce.
“I need to tell you about Stephen,” I say.
His jaw tightens, but he nods.
So I tell him. Not just the broad strokes—the specific ways Stephen made me feel small.
The comments about my weight disguised as concern for my health.
The sighs when I got excited about a new recipe.
The way he’d look at thinner women and then look at me like I was a consolation prize he was graciously accepting.
“By the end,” I say, “I didn’t recognize myself. I’d made myself so small, trying to be what he wanted, that there was barely anything left. And when I finally got out, I promised myself I would never let anyone make me feel that way again.”
“I won’t—”
“You already did,” I say. “Yesterday, when you packed my bags and pushed me out the door—you made a decision about my life without asking me. You decided I couldn’t handle your damage, that I was better off without you. Just like Stephen decided I was too much. You didn’t even give me a choice.”
Finn is pale now, his knuckles white around the mug he still hasn’t drunk from.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I did exactly what he did. I just dressed it up as protection instead of criticism.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks on the words. “I’m so sorry, Marcella. I didn’t see it that way, but you’re right. I took your choice away. I won’t do it again.”
“How do I know that?”
“You don’t.” He sets the mug down and meets my eyes.
“You don’t know. And I can’t promise I won’t get scared again, because I will.
I’m going to wake up some mornings convinced you’d be better off without me.
But I can promise that I won’t act on it.
I won’t push you away without talking to you first. I won’t make decisions about us without you. ”
“That’s a big promise.”
“I know.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“Moira’s been trying to get me into real therapy for years.
Not just the VA minimum—actual help. I’m going to do it.
I’m going to find someone who specializes in PTSD and I’m going to do the work.
Not because you’re asking me to, but because I want to be someone who deserves you. ”
The words hang in the air between us. I search his face for any sign of the walls he built yesterday—the cold efficiency, the careful distance. I don’t find them. What I find instead is raw, terrified hope.
He means it. I can see that he means it.
But meaning it isn’t the same as doing it.
“I need time,” I say finally. “I need to see you actually do these things, not just promise them. I need to know that next week, next month, you’re still going to be here. Still choosing this.”
“I will be.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I know I want to be. And I know that the only thing worse than trying and failing is not trying at all.” He pauses.
“I love you, Marcella. I should have said it days ago. I should have said it instead of packing your bags. But I’m saying it now, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. ”
Love. The word lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward.
I want to say it back. The words are right there, pressing against my teeth.
But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know this is real.
“I’m not ready to say it back,” I tell him quietly. “I want to. But I need more time.”
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe, or disappointment. But he nods.
“Okay. I’ll wait. However long it takes.”
“It might take a while.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything we’ve said settling around us. My tea has gone cold. So has his, untouched.
“I have leftover Thai in the fridge,” I say finally. “You drove three hours. When did you last eat?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Finn.”
“There were more important things.”
I shake my head, but I’m almost smiling as I stand. “Stay here. I’ll heat something up.”
His hand catches my wrist. Gentle. A question, not a demand.
“Marcella.”
I look down at him—this man who drove through a city that terrifies him, who’s sitting on my secondhand couch looking lost and hopeful and completely out of his element.
“Thank you,” he says. “For listening. For not slamming the door in my face.”
“I thought about it.”
“I know.” His thumb traces a small circle on my wrist. “I would have deserved it.”
“Yes. You would have.”
But I don’t pull away. And when he tugs gently, I let him draw me closer until I’m standing between his knees, looking down at his upturned face.
“I’m still angry,” I warn him.
“I know.”
“I’m still scared.”
“I know.”
“This doesn’t mean everything’s fixed.”
“I know.” He reaches up, his hand hovering near my face, not quite touching. Asking permission. “But can I—”
I close the distance myself, pressing my lips to his.
The kiss is soft at first. Tentative. Nothing like the desperate collision in the hallway. This is a question, and I’m not sure of my answer yet.
But God, I’ve missed him. It’s only been a day, but my body remembers his touch like it’s been years.
“Marcella.” My name comes out rough against my mouth. “We don’t have to—“
“I know we don’t have to.” I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want to. But Finn—this doesn’t mean I’m not still scared, or that I trust you completely. I’m not there yet.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not giving you all of me tonight. I can’t. But I can give you this.”
His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “Then I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give. And I’ll earn the rest.”
It’s the right answer. Maybe the only answer that could have made me lean back in.
The kiss deepens. His fingers slide into my hair, and I grab fistfuls of his flannel, pulling him up from the couch. We stumble toward my bedroom, a graceless dance of need and hesitation. He pauses at the doorway, and I realize he’s giving me another out. Another chance to stop this.
I take his hand and pull him through.
My bedroom is small—barely fits the queen bed and dresser—but Finn fills it completely. He looks at the unmade sheets, the tissues on the nightstand, the evidence of how I spent the hours since he pushed me away.
“I did this,” he says quietly. “I made you cry.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “You can be sorry and still be here. Both things can be true.”
He takes his time undressing me, every touch a question—is this okay? and this?—and I answer with my body even as my heart stays watchful. His mouth traces the curve of my shoulder, my collarbone, the soft swell of my stomach that Stephen used to criticize.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every inch.”
I’ve heard those words before. Part of me braces for the but that always came next with Stephen.
It doesn’t come.
Finn just keeps touching me like I’m precious, and slowly, carefully, I let myself believe he means it. Not forever. Not completely. But enough for tonight.
When he finally slides inside me, I gasp—not just from the sensation, but from the intimacy. His forehead pressed to mine, his eyes open and watching me.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
We move together, finding a rhythm that’s slower than our desperate nights in his loft. More deliberate. He keeps his eyes on mine, and I want to look away—it’s too much, too vulnerable—but I make myself hold his gaze.
“I love you,” he says, the words broken by his ragged breathing. “I love you, Marcella.”
I don’t say it back. I kiss him instead, swallowing the words I’m not ready to give.
When the wave finally crashes through me, I cry out against his shoulder, and he follows me over the edge moments later. We collapse together, tangled and sweaty, his heart hammering against my cheek.
“I love you,” he says again, softer now.
“I know,” I whisper. “I believe you.”
He goes still. I feel the question he doesn’t ask.
“I’m not ready to say it back,” I tell him. “Not yet. I need more time.”
For a moment, I’m terrified he’ll pull away. That this will be the thing that breaks us.
Instead, his arms tighten around me.
“Okay,” he says, and his voice is steady. “I’ll wait. I’ll keep saying it until you’re ready. And when you say it back, I’ll know you mean it.”
Something in my chest loosens. Not all the way—there’s still a knot of fear that won’t untangle easily. But enough.
“Even when you’re being an idiot?” I ask.
“Especially then.”
The afternoon sun slants through my bedroom window—I never did get proper curtains—by the time we finally talk about logistics.
We’re still in bed, still tangled together, my head on his chest and his fingers tracing absent patterns on my hip.
The city noise filters in—sirens in the distance, neighbors talking in the hallway—and I feel him tense each time.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“Whatever you want.” His voice rumbles beneath my ear, though I can feel his heart racing—whether from me or the city sounds, I’m not sure. “I meant what I said—I’ll come to Denver when I can, you can come to the ranger station. We’ll figure it out.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him. “About the figuring out part.”
“And?”
“My lease is up in two months.” I gesture around my small bedroom. “This place was always temporary anyway—my rebound apartment after the divorce. The blog is portable—I can work from anywhere with internet. And honestly? I’ve been looking for something new anyway. A fresh start.”
His hand stills on my hip. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying...” I take a breath. “What if I moved to Cascade Falls? Not to the ranger station—not right away. That would be too fast. But the town has apartments, and your sister has a gallery, and there’s that cute coffee shop I saw—”
“Yes.”
I blink. “I didn’t finish.”
“I don’t care. Yes.” His eyes are bright, almost feverish. “Move there. Find an apartment in town. Come to the ranger station on weekends, or I’ll come down to you. Whatever you need. Just—yes.”
“You don’t want to think about it?”
“I’ve done nothing but think for four years. I’m done thinking.” He pulls me down and kisses me, soft and sure. “I want you close. I want to build a life with you. I want to wake up knowing you’re twenty minutes away instead of three hours.”
“What about your anxiety? Coming to town—”
“I’ll manage. For you, I’ll manage.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Moira’s been trying to get me into therapy for years. Real therapy, not just the VA minimum. Maybe it’s time I actually went. Found someone who specializes in PTSD, learned some better coping mechanisms.”
The casualness of the statement belies its weight. Finn McGrath, who’s spent four years avoiding help, volunteering for therapy because he wants to be better. For me. For us.
“We’ll both try,” I promise. “I’ve got my own stuff to work on. The way Derek made me feel, the confidence issues. We can figure it out together.”
“Together.” He repeats the word like it’s new. Like he’s never really considered what it means. “I like that.”
“We should probably eat actual food,” I say, suddenly aware we’ve been in bed for hours. “I have leftover Thai in the fridge.”
“In a minute.” He pulls me closer, and I feel him breathe deeply, like he’s trying to memorize this moment. “Just... let me hold you. In your space. Your apartment.”
I don’t correct him to say our life, even though part of me wants to. That feels like too much, too fast. I’m not ready to merge everything just because he showed up at my door.
But I’m ready to try. Ready to see if this can work.
“You can hold me,” I say instead. “For as long as you need.”
He kisses the top of my head, and we lie there in my tiny Denver bedroom, city noise and thin walls and all.
It’s not a declaration. It’s not a promise.
But it’s a start.