Chapter 23 Finn
Bars are supposed to make noise.
That’s the whole point — clinking glasses, bad music, people talking too loud because they want strangers to notice them and pretend they don’t.
Tonight, the place is buzzing, but none of it makes it past the static in my head. I sit hunched on a stool at the far end, a beer sweating in front of me, staring at the foam like it might give me answers.
It doesn’t.
Nothing does.
Not the whiskey I had earlier.
Not the noise.
Not the dim lights or the bartender’s half-hearted flirting or the game playing muted on the TV overhead.
My thoughts keep circling back to Wren.
Every time I blink, I see her face when her phone buzzed earlier — that flash of terror she tried to bury in a second.
And every time I breathe, I feel the tight ache in my chest from watching her swallow her panic like it was her job.
I should’ve said something.
I should’ve followed her.
I should’ve been braver.
Instead, I’m here.
Drinking.
Thinking.
Failing.
I’m about to flag the bartender for another when movement at the corner of my vision hooks me by the throat. My stomach drops before my head even turns.
Because there she is.
Wren Harper.
Alone.
In this bar.
At nine p.m.
Looking like she’s barely holding it together.
She slides onto a stool two seats down, unaware of me at first, her shoulders curled inward, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. The bartender asks what she wants, and she murmurs something too soft to hear.
When her drink comes — something pink, something sweet, something she only orders when she wants to forget things — she lifts it with hands that shake.
Fuck.
I straighten, pulse suddenly thundering in my neck.
She doesn’t look up until her second sip. Her eyes flick sideways, land on me, and widen like she wasn’t expecting a familiar face.
“Finn?” she breathes.
Her voice is small, soft, frayed at the edges. It makes something inside me break clean in two.
I lift my hands gently, not moving closer. “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
She swallows, throat working. “I... needed air.”
Air.
In a bar.
Right.
I want to ask who texted her.
I want to ask what scared her.
I want to tell her she can talk to me, that I won’t push, that I won’t crowd her the way the others might without meaning to.
But she looks like a single wrong question will shatter her.
So instead, I nod toward her drink. “That any good?”
She looks down at the glass like she forgot she’s holding it. “It’s... strong.”
“How strong?”
Her gaze flicks up, cheeks pink. “Pretty strong.”
She tips back another swallow anyway.
My chest tightens. “Maybe slow down a little?”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tease me. Doesn’t roll her eyes like she might have yesterday.
She just nods.
Quietly.
Obediently.
Not the good kind of obedient — the scared kind.
I can’t sit two seats away anymore.
Slowly, deliberately, I slide off my stool and take the one next to her. Close enough she can feel me, far enough she can move if she needs space.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
Her breath hitches. “Yeah.”
She’s lying.
Badly.
But she’s buzzed — her pupils slightly wider, her shoulders looser than they were earlier — and when she turns toward me, the truth slips out in a whisper.
“No,” she says. “I’m... not.”
The words hit me like a punch.
I shift so my knee brushes hers, barely there, giving her a little pressure point to lean on if she wants it. Her thigh tenses, then relaxes like the contact actually helps.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
Her lip trembles. She doesn’t look at me. “Not really.”
“Okay,” I murmur. “Then we won’t talk.”
She deflates like that was the right answer. Like she needed permission to not explain her pain.
We sit like that for a minute. Two. Her fingers curl around the glass like she’s afraid to let go. Then, quietly, like she’s confessing a sin:
“I hate that he still gets to do this to me.”
My blood goes cold. “Who?”
She shuts her eyes, wincing at herself. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You can say anything,” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breath stutters. She lifts her drink to take another sip, but I gently touch her wrist.
“Hey,” I say softly. “You’re shaky. Maybe let me take that?”
She hesitates.
Then she nods and lets the drink go.
She’s letting me help her.
That alone feels like the kind of trust I don’t deserve.
I slide the glass away from her before she can change her mind. When she looks back up at me, the bar lights catch her eyes — brighter from alcohol, glossy with emotion she’s fighting hard to hide.
“You’re... nice,” she murmurs.
I laugh, but quietly. “Pretty sure that’s the first time a woman has told me that in a bar.”
“No, you are,” she insists, a tipsy conviction softening her tone. “You’re safe.”
The words hit me harder than anything on the ice ever could.
I swallow, feeling heat rise in my throat. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
Her fingers drift toward mine on the bar top. She stops herself before touching me, like she’s afraid she’s crossing a line.
I bridge the distance for her.
I lay my hand gently over hers, giving her a chance to pull away.
She doesn’t.
She lets out a tiny breath — relief, maybe — and her shoulders sink.
“Can you stay for a little?” she asks quietly.
I don’t hesitate. “As long as you want.”
Her head tips slightly until it rests against my shoulder. Light. Careful. Testing.
I go still.
Then softer than soft, I lean my cheek to her hair.
She’s warm.
She smells like vanilla and nerves and something delicate I want to protect with my life.
Her voice is muffled against me. “Today was really hard.”
“I know.”
“It’s stupid.”
“It’s not.”
“I didn’t want anyone to know.”
My chest aches. “You don’t have to hide everything.”
She presses closer — not drunk, not clinging — just... surrendering a little.
And God, it feels like the whole world holds its breath.
“You’re warm,” she murmurs.
“You’re freezing,” I counter gently.
She smiles against my shoulder — small, fragile, perfect.
I don’t know how long we sit like that. Long enough for her breathing to slow. Long enough for her hand to slide against mine like she’s searching for something to anchor her.
When her fingers weave through mine, I feel it everywhere.
“Wren,” I whisper, trying not to spook her. “You’re tired.”
She hums. “Just... don’t leave yet.”
“I won’t.”
But she’s swaying a little now, buzzed more than she realizes. Her head tilts and her lips brush the curve of my shoulder — light, accidental, but it shoots heat straight through me.
I swallow hard.
I need to get her home.
Gently, I slip an arm around her back. “Come on, sweetheart.”
She stiffens for half a second at the endearment — then melts, cheeks flushed.
“Let me take you home.”
“No, I don’t want—” She falters. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be.”
I help her off the stool, steadying her as she leans into me. Her fingers curl in my jacket, her breath warm on my neck.
Her voice is small. “Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
My throat tightens. “Anytime, Wren.”
She’s soft against me — not sensual exactly, but threaded with want and vulnerability that feels like a secret she didn’t mean to share.
As we walk out, her body sways into mine, her hip brushing mine with every step, and each touch sparks something warm, something hungry, something I have to hold back for her sake.
When we get outside, the cold air hits her, and she shivers violently. I pull her close, tucking her under my arm.
“You good?” I ask.
She nods against me. “I like this.”
“What?”
“Being close to you.”
My heart trips.
Shit.
I’m falling.
Hard.
I guide her to her building, which, surprisingly, is less than a block from the bar, then help her up the stairs with her hand in mine. When we reach her door, she fumbles with the keys.
“I’ve got it,” I say softly, taking them from her and unlocking the door.
She steps inside and turns to look at me, eyes wide, pupils blown, lips parted — not because she wants something physical, but because she’s raw and unguarded and she trusts me.
“Stay,” she whispers.
Not a kiss.
Not a touch.
Just one word that feels like it carries the weight of her whole chest.
I step inside and shut the door behind us.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” I promise.
She nods, relieved, and walks toward her bedroom. I follow at a respectful distance. She sits on the edge of her bed, pulls off her hoodie, then stops — frozen, unsure.
“Do you want help?” I ask gently.
Her breath trembles. “Just... sit with me?”
I do.
She leans into my side, warm and trusting, her cheek against my shoulder again. My arm goes around her naturally, and she exhales like she’s been waiting to be held.
I lower her back onto the pillows slowly, brushing hair from her forehead. Her eyes flutter.
“Finn?” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell them.”
My chest cracks. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Her fingers curl in my shirt.
“Stay,” she breathes again, softer.
I sit beside her as she drifts, her breathing evening out, her hand still gripping mine like she’s afraid of the dark.
I watch her sleep, something fierce and protective blooming in my chest.
And when I finally whisper, “I’m right here,”
I mean it.