Chapter 45 Wren
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Finn’s building looks like the kind of place twenty-somethings in commercials pretend they live in—exposed brick, steel accents, big windows, city noise humming from below. It doesn’t match the chaotic sunshine currently unlocking the front door with exaggerated stealth, but it’s very... him.
He glances back as Atlas parks behind us. “Welcome, Ms. Harper,” Finn says with a mock bow. “To the Kingdom of Questionable Decor and Poor Financial Decisions.”
Atlas mutters, “We should’ve taken her to Kael’s.”
Kael doesn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw tightens.
“I’m right here,” I say quietly.
All three look at me.
Finn softens first. “Sorry. Habit.”
Atlas nods once. “We know.”
Kael’s eyes hold mine a second longer than necessary. “If you want to stay somewhere else—”
“No,” I say, surprising all of us. “This is good. Finn’s good.”
Finn’s ears actually pink.
We take the elevator up. Atlas and Kael flank me so completely that another tenant stepping in does a cartoonish double-take and steps back out again.
Finn’s apartment is...
Wow.
It looks like a golden retriever decorated it.
A hockey bag in the middle of the living room. Mismatched throw pillows. A plant that’s definitely fake. A framed poster of a 90s action movie. A kitchen counter with three energy drinks, a protein bar, and exactly one banana.
“This is—” I start.
“A disaster?” Finn offers.
“—a place someone actually lives,” I finish.
He lights up. “Exactly!”
Atlas walks through the space like searching for threats. Kael checks the locks without announcing it.
Finn leads me to a door on the right and pushes it open.
“My spare bedroom,” he says. “It’s technically for my mom when she visits, or Kael when he snores, or Atlas when he pretends he doesn’t want to sleep over, but—” He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s yours tonight. If you want it.”
The room is clean.
Simple.
Unexpectedly soft.
A queen bed with a gray comforter. A small dresser. A lamp. No clutter.
“Thank you,” I say.
Kael stands in the doorway, arms crossed. “We’ll be out front.”
Atlas hovers behind him, looking like he wants to rip the door off its hinges just to rebuild it stronger.
“Finn,” Kael says quietly, “you keep your phone on. If anything feels off, you call immediately. No hesitation.”
Finn nods. “Yeah. Obviously.”
Atlas adds, “Wren—lock the door. Don’t answer for anyone but us. I’ll swing by your apartment and check every corner.”
The guilt hits hard. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he says simply.
And I know he means it.
Kael steps close—not touching, but close enough I feel the warmth radiate from him. “We’ll be five minutes away at most,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye on the street.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
Atlas nods once, sharp and protective. “Text if you need anything.”
Finn stands behind me like a softer shadow.
Kael meets Finn’s eyes. “You don’t leave her. Not even to piss.”
Finn sputters. “I can just leave the door open!”
Atlas looks at him like he’s an idiot. “You’re not leaving her.”
“I’m not leaving her,” Finn repeats dutifully.
Kael gives one last look at me—slow, assessing, making sure I’m steady—and then he turns. Atlas follows. The door closes behind them.
The quiet hits immediately.
Finn exhales like he’s been holding his breath since we parked. “Well. That was... intense.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed. “A little.”
He leans against the doorframe, watching me with a look that’s too soft for the circumstances. “How’s your head?”
“Loud,” I admit.
He comes closer. “Want company? Or space?”
The question is gentle.
Careful.
Not assuming anything.
I look at him—really look at him.
The way he’s trying not to crowd me.
The way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me but won’t unless I ask.
The way his eyes keep darting from my mouth to my eyes and back, like he’s terrified to want what he clearly wants.
“Company,” I whisper.
He moves slowly, like approaching a wounded animal—which annoys me and touches me at the same time.
He sits beside me, knees brushing mine. “Can I...?” he starts, then trails off.
I lean into him first.
His breath catches.
Finn touches my thigh lightly, like I might break under his hand. I press closer.
“You don’t have to be careful,” I murmur.
His exhale comes out ragged. “If I’m not careful with you, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I turn toward him. “Finn.”
He swallows. Hard. “Yeah?”
“You can kiss me.”
His eyes flash—bright, desperate, relieved—and then his hands cradle my face like I’m something he’s been waiting his whole life to touch.
The kiss starts soft.
It does not stay soft.
Finn kisses like he feels everything.
Like emotion is fuel.
Like he’s been wanting this and holding it back for too long.
My fingers twist in his shirt. He makes a sound—a low, helpless groan—and pulls me onto his lap. His hands slide along my hips, up my back, over my waist. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just hungry in a way that sets every nerve in my body on fire.
He pulls back slightly, forehead resting against mine. His breathing is uneven. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice frayed.
I shake my head, pulling him back in.
He kisses me again—deeper, slower, a kind of worship that makes my chest ache. His thumb sweeps the side of my waist. I feel the heat roll through him like a wave. His lips trail along my jaw, down my neck, lingering where my pulse jumps.
“Wren,” he murmurs against my skin, “if we keep going...”
I tug his shirt. “Don’t stop.”
His control snaps like a thread.
He lifts me effortlessly—hands on my hips, mouth on my throat—and lays me gently on the bed. He hovers over me, breath shaking.
“Are you sure?” he asks again, voice cracked open.
“Yes.”
And the look he gives me—raw, reverent, starving—burns straight through me.
Finn kisses down my throat, across my collarbone, along the line of my shoulder. His hands slide under my shirt, warm and careful, then bolder when I don’t flinch. His mouth returns to mine, deeper, hotter, all emotion and heart and need.
He kisses like every second matters.
Like he’s memorizing me.
Like he’s terrified this is the last time he’ll get to touch me.
He murmurs my name again—low, pleading—and I pull him closer, legs curling around him.
And the rest of the world falls away.
The fear.
The noise.
The shadows.
The man in Section 118.
All that exists is Finn’s hands, Finn’s breath, Finn’s voice breaking at the edges as he touches me with more reverence than I’ve ever been treated with in my life.
I don’t know how long we stay wrapped in each other—minutes, hours, maybe a lifetime—but eventually, the heat softens, the urgency fades, and Finn pulls me against his chest, one hand in my hair, the other tracing slow circles on my back.
His voice is barely audible. “You’re staying here tonight.”
It isn’t a command.
Or fear.
Or protocol.
It’s devotion.
I curl into him, letting my head rest on his heartbeat.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I am.”
And Finn holds me like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than he’ll ever admit.