Finney never liked being touched. Not since him. The Grabber left something behind that wasn’t visible , just this sharp, crawling feeling under his skin whenever someone got too close. He’d flinch. Pull back. Sometimes mutter, “If you touch me again, I’ll scratch your face.” And he meant it.

But not with you.

You never pushed. You’d walk beside him, quiet, hands in your pockets, matching his pace. Sometimes you’d bump shoulders, just barely, and he wouldn’t move away.

Tonight, the two of you sat on the curb, the air cold enough to see your breath. Finney—or just Finn had been quiet for a long time, staring at the cracks in the street.

You thought he didn’t want to talk, so you didn’t say anything. Just let the silence stretch.

Then, softly, he said, “No… you can uh… hold my hand if you want.”