Page 27 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I gesture with the mug. “Both. But mostly I’m here because it’s arctic in my room and the heating is a joke.” I realize I sound more whiny than intended, so I tack on, “At least they sprang for blackout curtains. You can’t see the storm unless you’re stupid enough to go outside.”
He lifts his cup in salute. “I was thinking about it. At least in a blizzard, you have a reason for feeling like shit.”
I take the stool next to him, careful to leave an inch or two of air between us. Close, but not a threat. “You always like this in the middle of the night, or is it a special occasion?”
He looks at me, really looks, and for the first time, I get why women used to write poetry about Nordic death gods. His face is all angles, every feature sharpened by shadow. “You mean awake or sober?” he says, deadpan.
I snort. “Either. Both.”
“I can’t sleep when the air is heavy. Storms make me restless.” He says it like a confession, but with zero shame.
The kettle rattles and hisses. I pour the water and watch the bag bloom, hands wrapped tight around the mug for warmth. Finn watches too, tracking the tiny movements. He’s not ogling, but it’s like he’s building a database of everything I do. “You ever notice how it’s quieter in a storm?” he asks. “Like the noise outside cancels out the noise in your head.”
“I hadn’t,” I say, sipping the scalding liquid. “But now that you mention it, it’s nice. Less room for all the bullshit.”
He nods, then lifts his own mug, inhaling. “You want?” He holds it out. The aroma is so sweet and sharp it stings my sinuses. “Mulled cider,” he explains. “Made it on the stove. Last of the season.”
I reach for it, and our fingers touch. Not long, not dramatic, but enough to send a jolt through my arm. The mug is warm from his hands. I drink, and it tastes like clove, cinnamon, and something else—ginger maybe, or the secret ingredient of every Scandinavian grandmother. I hand it back, licking the spice off my lips.
“That’s intense,” I say. “You make this often?”
He shrugs again, but I see the faintest smile. “Tradition at home. Keeps your core warm. And keeps your brain occupied.”
I lean in, elbows on the bar. “So what else do you do to keep your brain occupied, Finn? When you’re not terrorizing rookies or watching storms?”
He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “I like puzzles. Chess, mostly. Sometimes math games. I’ll do anything if it keeps me busy.”
It’s honest and kind of raw, and I’m caught off guard by how much I want to know more. “So you’re a secret nerd. I should have guessed.”
He looks at me from under his lashes, almost shy. “Most of the team thinks I don’t have a sense of humor. That I’m just muscle.”
I think about the last few days, about the times I’ve caught him watching, but never joining, the times he’s cleaned up the mess behind the scenes, the way he always lets others step into the spotlight first. “They’re idiots,” I say.
This time, the smile is real. Not huge, not full teeth, but there. “You’re different,” he says. “You see people. Not just what’s on the surface.”
The words hit a little too close, and I default to sarcasm. “Is this a side effect of the cider, or are you always this chatty after midnight?”
He’s unfazed. “I don’t like small talk, but I like talking to you.”
We sit there, and it feels surprisingly warm. For a minute I forget I’m freezing, forget the storm, forget the mess of my own brain.
He sets the mug down, nudges it toward me. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t care about any of this?”
It takes a second to process. “Any of what?”
He gestures, not at the room, but at the world. “All of it. The team. The job. The way you try so hard not to be disappointed when people screw you over.”
I look down, blinking hard. I don’t owe him this, and it feels far too soon for him to have guessed any of this, but I want to answer. It’s been a tough few days, made worse by Ryland coming at me this morning with the full coach-on-a-power-trip energy and calling my warm-ups “fluff.” If that weren’t enough, he mocked my protocols like I hadn’t spent years getting certified just to earn a seat at the table. He said it in front of the rookies, and a few of them laughed.
And I’d stood there, clipboard in hand, spine straight, pretending it didn’t sting. Pretending I hadn’t heard that same tone before—from bosses, from exes, from people who liked me better when I wasn’t trying so hard.
That was always the pattern. They liked the version of me that was helpful, driven, tireless. Until I became inconvenient. Until I knew more than them, anticipated what they didn’t see coming. Until I made them feel like they couldn’t keep up.
Then I became too much.
The last one told me I made him feel like a guest in his own life. Said he never knew how to show up for me because I already had everything handled.
He didn’t say it cruelly. That was almost worse. Just like he was checking out of a hotel he couldn’t afford. I’d nodded. Packed up. Left like I always do. So yeah. When people leave,I try not to look surprised. I pretend I didn’t hope for more. I convince myself I didn’t care that much.
