Being taken by the Grabber and held captive had done awful, undeniable things to Finney’s mind.

No one walked away from something like that untouched. The basement, the abuse, the constant fear that never let him sleep properly, the knowledge that he’d killed the man who’d hurt him just to survive—it all stayed. It lingered in the quiet moments. In the dark. In his body.

Nightmares still clawed at him. Flashbacks came uninvited. His nerves were always wound too tight, even now, almost two years free.

You knew all of that.

And yet, to you, he was still just Finney. Your Finney. Not a headline. Not a survivor story. Not a broken thing that needed fixing. Just your boyfriend, the same way he always had been, even when everything else had changed.

And a lot had changed.

He smoked too much weed now, said it helped quiet his head. He was always tense, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. Touch didn’t come easily anymore—no casual hugs, no lazy kisses, no warmth without hesitation.

None of that mattered right now.

His house was empty, quiet in that hollow way that made everything feel louder. You were in his room, the door shut, the air heavy with something fragile. Making out—slow, careful, almost shy. Something rare enough to feel sacred.

You sat on his lap, his hands resting on your back like he was afraid to grip too tightly, afraid he might break the moment if he did. His forehead leaned against yours, breathing uneven but steady.

And then your hand slipped under his shirt.

The change was instant.

Finney froze.

Not pulled away—not tense, not angry—just… gone. His hands went slack against you, fingers losing their hold as if they’d forgotten what they were supposed to do. His eyes unfocused, staring past you, past the room.

His mind dragged him back underground. Concrete walls. Locked doors. Hands that weren’t yours.

Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, silent and helpless, his breath caught somewhere between then and now. He looked like someone trapped in a nightmare while wide awake.