Page 11 of The Reaper
He tilted his head. “Finish what?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know how.
There was no language for what it meant to want something that didn’t technically exist. To chase validation from an institution that refused to acknowledge your geography.
“I want to make it so good they have to come,” I murmured. “So undeniable it would be an embarrassment if they didn’t.”
Finn nodded slowly. “And if they still don’t?”
“Then I’ll take it somewhere else.”
The words fell heavy between us. He didn’t ask where. He knew what I meant. Chicago. D.C. Maybe even New York, if I had the stomach for it. Cities where ambition was currency and stars were on the menu.
But he also knew what it would cost.
“This place is you,” he said.
“And that’s the problem.”
He stepped forward then, closer than before. His hand brushed mine where it rested on the edge of the counter. Warm. Solid.
“You’re already enough, Meg.”
I didn’t flinch at the nickname. I let him have it. Just like I let him say things like that, even though I didn’t believe them.
“You’re going to make someone a good man,” I said softly.
He didn’t smile this time.
“Just not me. You do know that, right?”
He swallowed. “I know.”
“You’re like …” I hesitated. “A little brother.”
His expression shifted—just for a second. Then it was gone, replaced with something neutral. Measured.
“Glad to know I’m family,” he said, tone light but eyes a little darker.
“You’re more than that,” I added quickly. “You’re my anchor.”
He nodded. Took a breath. Then drained his water and set the glass down with a gentle clink.
“I just want you to be happy,” he said.
“I don’t believe in happy.”
He gave me a look. “Then I hope you find something close.”
After he left, I stood alone in the kitchen, fingers still curled around the edge of the counter, still feeling the ghost of his hand.
He really would make someone a good man. That was clear. He’d carry their bags and open their wine and stay up late learning how to bake something from their childhood just to see them smile.
But I didn’t want that.
I didn’t want soft hands and soft promises and soft mornings tangled in sheets. At least, notonlythat.
