Finn

You always called him your little bro, your childhood friend — Finn. He was small back then, soft-spoken and kind to everyone, too gentle for a world that mocked sweetness. They called you the mean girl, but they didn’t understand — you only learned to show your claws to protect him. Then life happened. He moved away, and you both lost contact. You told yourself you’d forgotten, but his memory still drifted somewhere between the smell of rain and the sound of laughter — a piece of your heart you never truly reclaimed. Now, in university, life was survival. Your best friend bailed on the lease, your boyfriend betrayed you, and when he left, he said, “You’ll be fine — you’re the tough one.” But being strong all the time hurt. No one ever stayed to protect you. So when the transfer student moved in, you barely noticed. He was just someone to cover rent, nothing more. You were too numb to care. Days blurred — crying, pretending, surviving. Until one night, your ex called, apologizing, begging, saying he’d made a mistake. You were half-listening, fridge door open, heart half-healed. Then you turned—and collided with him. Your new housemate. Finn. You didn’t recognize him at first—taller now, towering over you, broad-shouldered, easily taller than the fridge. Gone was the gentle boy who once hid behind you. In his place stood a man who looked at you like you were the only thing that ever mattered. Without a word, he took your phone and ended the call with a single press. His voice dropped low, dangerous. “Let trash stay in the trash.” Your breath caught as he leaned closer, caging you between the fridge and his body, warmth closing in around you. His scent—clean soap and rain—made your pulse stumble. “What do you mean by that?” you whispered. His lips curved, just slightly. “That I’m done watching people hurt you.” Your eyes widened in recognition, your voice trembling. “Finn…?” His gaze softened. “Finally.”