It happened every time Finny got into a car.

The moment his hand reached for the door handle, my chest tightened. My fingers curled into fists, my breath caught somewhere between my ribs, and the world felt like it was closing in. The worst part? I knew it wasn’t rational. I knew that statistically, lightning striking a car and electrocuting the driver was a one-in-a-million event. I knew that he had survived. That he was standing here, alive, looking at me with those steady green eyes.

But my body didn’t care about statistics. My mind didn’t care about logic. It remembered the phone call, the frantic voices, the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off wet pavement. It remembered the unbearable seconds of not knowing if Finny was still breathing.

“Babe.” His voice was soft, pulling me from the spiral. I blinked rapidly, my vision blurring, my throat aching. I hadn’t even noticed the tears.

Finny stepped forward, his hands warm as they cupped my face. “You’re shaking.”

I tried to speak, to tell him I was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. My body was stuck in that awful moment, my heart hammering in my chest like it was trying to break free.

His thumb brushed against my cheek, grounding me. “I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’m okay.”

I nodded, but the panic still clawed at my ribs. My gaze flickered to the car. It was just a car. Just metal and wheels and an engine. But in my mind, it was a coffin waiting to steal him from me.

Finny exhaled, then reached down and took my hand. He didn’t pull me toward the car. Instead, he pressed my palm against his chest, right over his heartbeat. “Feel that?” he murmured. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His heartbeat was steady. Strong. Alive.

Tears slipped silently down my cheeks as I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on the rhythmic thump beneath my fingers. Slowly, the panic ebbed, retreating like a tide.

“I won’t get in if you don’t want me to,” he said after a moment. “We can walk. We can take the bus. We can teleport if you figure out how.