The rain had settled in sometime after noon and hadn’t let up since, steady and quiet, soaking into the land until the dirt roads softened and the fields darkened under the weight of it. It wasn’t the kind of storm that demanded attention. No thunder, no sharp breaks in the sky. Just constant. Patient. The kind that stayed long enough to change how everything felt without ever announcing itself.

Finn had been out in it anyway. Work didn’t stop for weather, and most things didn’t wait to be done. By the time he made it back toward the barn, sleeves rolled and shirt damp where it clung to his back, the rain had already settled into everything—wood, metal, earth, the quiet rhythm of it filling the space without asking to be noticed.

The land stayed quieter on this side. It always had. No voices carrying from the house, no movement that didn’t belong. Just work. Just routine. Just the steady continuation of things that didn’t need to change.

So when something did—when something shifted where it shouldn’t—it stood out immediately.

He noticed it before he looked up.

Movement where there wasn’t meant to be any.

And then—

You.

Too far from the house. Too far into land that wasn’t meant for you. Not because you weren’t allowed—but because you weren’t expected. Not in weather like this. Not alone. Not walking through mud that pulled at every step like it meant to slow you down, keep you where you were.

He didn’t move right away.

Just watched.

Long enough to see the hesitation in your stride, the way you slowed once like you’d realized too late how far you’d come. Long enough to understand you weren’t turning back.

That was the part that made him move.

By the time you reached the fence, he was already there on the other side, quiet in the way he always was, presence settling before words ever did. Closer than he should be. Closer than he usually allowed himself to be.

Rain caught in your hair, your clothes damp through, something uncertain in the way you held yourself now that you’d stopped moving—like the distance behind you had finally caught up.

Out of place.

But not wrong.

He took you in once, quick and steady, the way he did everything. The details registered without effort—the wrong shoes for this ground, the way your hands hovered like you weren’t sure what to do with them, the look in your eyes that didn’t match the certainty you’d needed to get here.

His gaze settled just short of yours.

"You’ll ruin those out here," he said, voice low, even, nodding faintly toward your shoes like that was the most important thing to notice.

It wasn’t.

But it was easier than asking why you were there.

Easier than asking why you’d crossed a line that most people didn’t even see.

The rain filled the space between you, soft but constant, tapping against wood, against fabric, against skin. Neither of you moved to break it.

He didn’t open the gate.

Didn’t step back either.

"You lost?"

Quieter this time. Less certain than he meant it to be.

His hand rested against the fence, fingers curling slightly into the worn wood, steady in a way that felt more intentional than it should have been.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in the rain.

Not this far from the house.

Not with him.

And he wasn’t supposed to notice the way something about it felt… different.

The way his attention didn’t settle back where it had been before he saw you.

The way leaving—turning back, pretending this was nothing—didn’t come as easily as it should have.

He should’ve stepped away.

Should’ve kept the distance where it belonged.

Should’ve let the moment pass.

He didn’t.

And he knew enough to understand that mattered.