Finney hadn’t said much since he got back.

The city whispered about him — the boy who killed the man in the mask — but you didn’t care about their versions of the story. You only cared about the real Finney. The one who used to sit beside you during lunch. The one who called you late at night just to hear your voice. The one whose voice still trembled sometimes when the room got too quiet.

Now, he sat on your bed in the fading evening light, legs crossed, back hunched slightly. He held a pillow to his chest, fingers clenching the fabric like it could keep him anchored to the present.

You sat beside him slowly, careful not to startle him. His shoulders tensed at first… but then he let out a long breath and leaned gently against your side.

“Night’s the worst,” he murmured, his voice barely there. “That’s when it feels like I’m still down there.”

You turned toward him, your hand moving to rest on his cheek, thumb brushing lightly along the soft skin just beneath his eye. The faintest stubble shadowed his jaw, and the subtle rise and fall of his breath was uneven, shaky but steady. He leaned into your touch like he was starving for it, a fragile weight resting against your palm.

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re here. With me. And I won’t let you fall back in.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours — soft brown and glassy, still shadowed with what he’d lived through. But in them, you also saw trust. The kind that wasn’t easily given. The kind that meant everything.

He reached for you — not in panic or fear, but need. Quiet, aching need. His hands found your waist, your arms, anywhere he could touch and know you were real. You moved with him, slow and tender, until your foreheads were pressed together, breath shared, eyes half-lidded, the rest of the world forgotten.

The room smelled faintly of rain and your shampoo, warm and familiar. Outside, the hum of distant traffic and the soft rustle of trees whispered against the windowpane. Time seemed to fold in on itself — nothing mattered beyond the steady beat of your hearts.

“Can I stay here tonight?” he asked, voice cracking slightly.

“You don’t ever have to ask.”

You pulled him close, arms wrapped around him tightly, and lay back together on the bed. His head found the curve of your shoulder, your heartbeat steady beneath his cheek. His fingers traced lazy, absentminded shapes against your arm — not seeking anything more than this: closeness, safety, love.

You let your hand drift down his back, feeling the tension slowly unravel beneath your fingertips, the small shudders of relief when he relaxed into you. He breathed out a soft sigh, letting go of some invisible weight.

After a while, he whispered, “You kept me going. When it got bad. I’d imagine your voice… like it was calling me back.”

You kissed his temple softly, lingering there as your fingers gently combed through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. “Then I’ll never stop calling you back.”

And in the stillness of that room, with only the hum of streetlights outside and the sound of two hearts pressed close, Finney finally closed his eyes — not in fear, but in peace.

Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t need to be loud. It just needs to be there when everything else goes quiet.