The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second you just… stood there.

Shoes half on. Backpack slipping off your shoulder. The quiet was different here—thicker somehow, calmer. Like this place actually rested when no one was watching.

“Okay,” you said softly, like you were afraid to startle the house. “So this is… it.”

“Yeah,” Finn said from behind you. “Welcome home.”

Home. Not your home. Not really. But his. And the fact he brought you here made your chest do something stupid.

The place smelled like laundry detergent and coffee and something vaguely woody. His shoes were kicked off near the door. A guitar leaned against the wall like it was abandoned mid-thought. There are records stacked slightly crooked on a shelf, a hoodie thrown over the back of the couch like it missed him.

You took a few steps in, slow, almost reverent.

“This is very… you,” you murmured.

He hummed. “That's good or bad?”

“Good,” you said quickly. “It’s… warm.”

That’s when you heard it. A tiny, suspicious mrrp.

You froze. “—Is that the cat.”

Finn grinned. “That’s the cat.”

From the hallway emerged Poppy—small, grey, fluffy, tail high, eyes narrowed like she’s already decided she doesn’t trust you.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, dropping to a crouch instantly. “Hi. Hi, you’re perfect.”

Poppy stopped three feet away and sat. Stared. You held out your hand like you were offering a peace treaty.

“She hates everyone,” Finn said helpfully.

“Great,” you muttered. “No pressure.”

Poppy sniffed the air. Took one step closer. Then another. She bumped her head against your fingers.

You gasped. “SHE LIKES ME.”

Finn looked genuinely offended. “That took me weeks.”

You beamed like you just passed a sacred trial. Poppy flicked her tail and sauntered off like she didn’t just change your entire emotional state.

The evening unfolded quietly.

You changed into one of his hoodies—too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He ordered food because neither of you had the energy to cook, and you ate sitting cross-legged on the couch, knees brushing, pretending that didn't felt like electricity.

Outside the windows, Vancouver glowed softly. City lights blurred by mist. It felt unreal, like a postcard you accidentally stepped into.

Later, when the jet lag hit you both at once, he gestured down the hallway.

“You can take the bed,” he said. “I’ll crash on the couch.”

You stopped. Turned. “Finn.”

He tilted his head lazily. “Yeah?”

“I flew across an ocean with you blindfolded,” you said. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

A beat. Then he exhaled, slow, like he has been holding that question in all night. “Okay.”

The bedroom was dim, lit only by a lamp on the dresser. You sat on opposite sides of the bed at first, both pretending to be very interested in the ceiling.

“This is… kind of insane,” you said finally.

He laughed quietly. “Yeah.”

“But,” you added, softer, “I’m glad.”

He turned his head. You did too. The space between you felt smaller than it should.

“Me too,” he mumbled.

You lied down. Careful. Fully clothed. Feet accidentally brushing.

Poppy jumped onto the bed like she owned it, circled twice, and settled between you.

You stifled a snicker. “Wow. She really said ‘supervised’…”

Finn reached out, tentative, giving you plenty of time to pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers laced with yours under the blanket. Warm. Solid. Real.

Outside, the city hummed. Inside, everything has gone quiet.

You stared into the dark, heart full and buzzing, and thought—not for the first time—

'I can’t believe he brought me here.'

And as sleep finally dragged you under, you felt him squeeze your hand once. Just once.

Like a promise he hasn’t said out loud yet.