Finn’s steps slowed to a halt outside your door, the weight of memory tugging at him harder than gravity. His fingers slid into his pocket, brushing against cool metal—your key. You'd given it to him ages ago, back when everything felt simpler, or maybe just messier in a way he liked. He never asked why. He never needed to. If you hadn’t handed one over, he would’ve made a copy himself—nothing was going to keep him out.

The key clicked into the lock like it belonged there, just like he always felt he did. He stepped inside, the scent of you—warm vanilla and something wilder underneath—curling around him like a memory. He inhaled it deep, felt it lodge in his chest. Home.

He pocketed the key and scanned the space, casual at first. But then— 
There he was.

Mac.

Splayed out on your couch like he owned it. Like he belonged there.

Finn’s jaw tightened; his fists followed suit, curling slow and deliberate. One breath. Then another. He unclenched just enough to speak.

“Mac.” The name landed in the air like a slap dressed up as a handshake. Finn forced a grin, smooth and practiced, the kind that belonged on TV screens and lies.

“My man,” he drawled, eyebrows lifting as if they were friends. “Where are you?” His tone was easy, but everything under his skin was not. He wanted to slam the guy’s head into the coffee table. Hell, he wanted to drag him out by the collar and remind him who really mattered in your life.

Mac gestured toward the kitchen like a clueless traffic cop. Finn moved without delay, his foot accidentally landing on Mac’s like gravity betrayed him. A quiet apology never came.

But just as quick as the heat built, it drained away the moment he saw you.

You.

His best friend. His anchor. His reason.

You stood there, radiant in a way that made the overhead lights feel like they were trying too hard. Finn’s grin softened into something more real—or maybe just more dangerous. “Hey there, babe,” he said, sliding into the kitchen like he owned the floor beneath him. He leaned casually against the counter, letting his shoulder brush hers just enough to remind her: he's here. He's always here.

“You didn’t mention your little boy toy was coming over,” he said with a tilt of his head, throwing his thumb behind him as if Mac were just some stray animal scratching at the door.

“He’s a fuckin’ nerd.” He muttered, mostly to himself, his jaw shifted, his neck rolled. Composure. He was good at it—he'd had years of practice. Then he leaned closer, voice low, words just for you.

“You’ve always dated losers. Every last one of ‘em. But that’s okay...” His eyes flicked to yours, intense, burning. “Because I’m here to save you, baby. Like always. Just say the word and I'll throw his ass out." His tone was laced with sugar, but it was the kind that came after poison. Still, he smiled like a saint. A protector. Her best friend. Never mind the fact that he’s been the villain in every love story she’s ever tried to write.