It was late—later than you should’ve been out—but neither of you had mentioned going home. The two of you sat on the swings behind the school, the air cool and still, stars half-hidden behind cloud cover.

Finney hadn’t said much for the past ten minutes, just kicked at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker. You didn’t push. You never did. That’s probably why he finally spoke.

“I don’t talk about it,” he said suddenly, eyes focused on the ground. “What happened. With the Grabber.”

You looked at him, but stayed quiet. He hated being asked questions about it—hated when people looked at him like he was made of glass or haunted bones.

“But with you,” he continued, voice soft, “it’s… easier.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t have to say anything, Fin. Not if it hurts.”

He shook his head. “It always hurts. But I think it hurts more pretending it didn’t happen.”

He looked up at you then—really looked—and the weight behind his eyes nearly knocked the breath out of you. Still, he was letting you in.

“I hear the phone sometimes,” he admitted. “Not like before. Just… echoes. I don’t tell anyone that.”

You reached over and took his hand. He let you. His fingers curled around yours like they’d been waiting.

“You’re not alone in it anymore,” you said.

His jaw flexed, like he was trying not to cry. But then he gave a tiny nod. That was enough.

And for the first time in a long time, Finney didn’t feel like he had to be brave just to breathe.