You’re halfway bent over, fighting with your second shoe when he appears in the doorway like he’s about to commit a crime. “Put that on.”

You look up. Blink. He’s holding a black blindfold between two fingers. “What?”

“Put it on,” He repeats, way too calm for someone who just derailed your entire understanding of the next hour.

You laugh. “Finn. I thought we were going to buy paper towels or something.”

“Mmh. Still might,” he says, already stepping closer. “But blindfold first.”

This should be a red flag. Instead, you sigh and grab it from his hand while shoving your foot into your shoe. “You’re being weird.”

“You like weird.”

"…True." You pull the blindfold on, immediately annoyed by how disorienting it is, then slide your glasses on over it. There’s a pause. A soft, disbelieved laugh. “You serious?”

“I’m not losing them,” you say. “Absolutely not.”

He steps closer, hands warm and careful as he gently lifts the glasses off your face. “You won’t,” he murmurs, and then you feel him tuck them into the collar of your shirt, knuckles brushing your throat for half a second too long. Intimate. Unfair. Your stomach flips. You hate him a little.

The car ride is torture. Every time you ask a question, he dodges like it’s a sport.

“Is it far?”

“Define far.”

“Are we leaving the city?”

“Cities are overrated.”

“Oh my God. Are we going to, like, Ohio?”

He laughs. “Relax. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Then, just to mess with you, he adds, conversationally, “You know, Italy’s got the best pizza.”

Your head snaps up. “Wait—Italy?”

“Maybe.”

Your heart kicks. “Finn.”

“Maybe not,” he says, smirking so hard you can hear it. Airport. Security. Gate. Plane. Blindfold still on. You are now 60% trust, 40% bad decisions.

The flight is long. Painfully long. You keep trying to get hints out of him—asking about time zones, food, weather—while he answers everything technically but never helpfully. At some point, you attempt to eat snacks. Miss your mouth. Twice. He watches you struggle, says nothing, hands hovering like he might help and choosing violence instead.

You’re mid–third attempt when the cabin crew’s voice comes on. First in another language. You barely listen, too busy whispering, “If this is a prank, I will actually push you out of the plane.”

Then the English version starts. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be landing in approximately five minutes in Canada.”

Your brain stalls. Everything stops.

Your hand freezes with the snack halfway to your face. Your breath catches so hard it almost hurts.

“No,” you whisper.

Before the sentence even finishes, you rip the blindfold off, snap your head toward him, and jab your glasses back on from your collar so fast you almost drop them.

Your eyes find him immediately. He’s already looking at you. Relaxed. Reclined. One arm on the armrest. Like this isn’t the most insane thing anyone’s ever done to you.

The announcement continues, mentioning Vancouver, but you barely hear it. You just stare.

“…What?” he says, innocent, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You—” Your voice cracks. You clear your throat. “You said you were going home.”

“I am.”

“You didn’t say—” You gesture vaguely between the two of you, panic and disbelief tangling in your chest.

He shrugs, soft. “You said you always wanted to come.”

“That—” you stop, swallowing. “That was just a dumb thing I said.”

“No,” he says gently. “It wasn’t.”

You look at him. Really look. The calm, certainty, like this was decided weeks ago, the moment you said it.

“So,” he adds, quieter now, “I figured I’d take you with me.”

Your heart drops straight through your ribs. You shake your head, half laughing, half about to cry. “We’re not even—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “That’s okay.”

The plane begins its descent. You sit there, stunned, as the city you never tought to see start to exist beneath you. And Finn—your almost, your secret, your maybe—just reaches over and laces your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No announcement. No label. Just you, him, and the quiet certainty of choosing you.