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You and Finney have been dating for 3 years, a little bit after he escaped the Grabber, you guys were setup by his sister, Gwen. Finney has never been the best at communicating his feelings, but it's not like you can complain, especially with all he has been through.
You have also tried to get him to quit smoking, due to it not being a healthy or safe coping mechanism, but he is also very stubborn, so people can only imagine how difficult it is trying to make him quit.
It was just you and Finney in his room, alone in the house in general. His sister, Gwen went to a concert with Ernesto (totally not a date), and his dad, Terrence was at work.
You and Finn were just lying on his bed together, you are laying at his side, one of your hands on his chest along with your head, and one leg on top of his hips slightly. Finney smoked a cigarette as you laid near him as "And I Love Her" by The Beatles played on his record player quietly.
You weren't saying anything, just letting the two of you sit in the silence. You weren't completely relaxed, maybe a little tense but other than that you were rather calm, your eyes were closed and you were attempting to sleep.
Finney exhales a slow stream of smoke, tilting his head slightly to look down at you. He can practically feel the tension in your body despite your closed eyes. The cigarette dangles loosely between his fingers as he reaches over to the ashtray on his nightstand to tap off the ash.
His voice is quiet, rough around the edges from smoke and disuse:
"Something's bothering you." He says, it’s not a question—he knows you too well for that.
He takes one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray on a bedside table, deciding against lighting another. His free hand moves absently to trace idle patterns on your back, trying to ease whatever’s got you wound up.
"You can tell me," he adds after a beat, "or don't. Just… don't lie there pretending it's not there." There's no irritation in his tone—just fatigue and something softer beneath it.
"Why not?" you mumble. "why can't I pretend it's not there?"
His fingers slow but don't stop their path across your back, gentle and rhythmic.
"You know I can tell when you're lying."
He's quiet for a moment, taking in the rise and fall of your shoulders, the faint crease between your brows that still shows even with your eyes closed.
"And 'cause you've been... off for awhile now," he continues, tone more thoughtful. "Tense. Snippy even." He keeps his voice soft, almost casual.
"Snippy?" you echo, a small smile playing at your lips.
One eyebrow raises and his mouth twitches at the corner.
"Don't even try and deny it."
His hand slides upwards from your back, tracing the curve of your shoulder to your collarbone, then up further to brush a stray lock of hair away from your face.
"You've been short-tempered," he clarifies, fingers brushing over your cheek. "On edge."
You don't say anything, you know he's right, and you struggle with what to say next.
He doesn't push you for more right away. Even though he knows there's something you're holding back, and he suspects part of him already knows what it is, he gives you a moment to collect yourself.
"Hey."
His touch turns tender, fingers gently tilting your chin up to look at him. His eyes, usually so guarded, soften at the sight of whatever's playing across your face he can't decipher yet.
"Talk to me, Y/N."
"I just don't want you to think I'm weird. Like there's something wrong with me." you whisper.
He lets out a breath—not a laugh, not quite a sigh—and pulls you in closer against his side. His grip tightens just slightly, grounding.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, "you know damn well after all the shit I've seen and been through, there’s not much left that could scare me off."
A beat of silence passes as he thumbs along your jawline.
"Try me."
You don't say anything for a moment, tracing the letters of his shirt with your finger.
"I-I don't know..."
He watches your finger tracing across the fabric, following the motion with his eyes and trying to guess where you might be going with this. The corners of his mouth twitch again at your hesitation—something about the way you're fidgeting with his shirt is strangely endearing, even if it is a nervous habit.
"C'mon," he coaxes quietly, his voice low and coaxing. "Just spit it out."
"Y-you can hear things, through the phone, right?" You ask quietly.
His body tenses for a split second—just enough to notice—before he forces himself to relax again. His thumb pauses mid-stroke against your jaw, and his voice lowers, measured.
"Yeah," he admits after a heartbeat. "Sometimes."
He studies your face carefully now, the guarded look creeping back into his eyes as he tries to figure out where this is headed. But there's no accusation in his tone—just quiet curiosity.
"Why?"
"I-I can see them..." you say quietly. "You hear them through broken phones and stuff. But I can see them..."
Finney goes completely still—not in fear, but like he's trying to process this properly. His grip on you tightens instinctively, not pulling away but anchoring both of you in place.
"See them," he echoes carefully. "You mean... ghosts?"
His voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of something else—recognition? Understanding?
"You been seeing them all along," he murmurs, "or... did it start after what happened with me?"
You shake your head. "I've seen them since I was five. I hate it..." you say quietly.
But for some reason I can't see them when I'm around you..."
His gaze turns thoughtful as you speak, his free hand running through his messy dark hair. He's thinking now, considering the implications of this, but his touch on you doesn't waver—if anything his grip becomes even more solid.
"Since you were five, huh," he whispers softly, more to himself than you. Then his eyes find yours again, sharp and blue.
"And you haven't told me this before... why, exactly?"
"I just- I didn't want you to hate me, I suppose..." you mumble.
He lets out an incredulous sound, something between a scoff and a chuckle. His eyes flicker with a mix of disbelief and amusement.
"You really think I'd hate you 'cause of this?" he asks, shaking his head. "Jesus, baby, we're dating. I ain't about to kick you to the curb 'cause you can see ghosts."
You exhale a long sigh. "You don't understand..." you say quietly. "Sometimes, I see him... Following me around, watching me..."
Finney's whole body goes rigid at that. He's trying to stay calm, but something in his eyes shifts—a muscle in his jaw tightens. He knows exactly who you're talking about.
"The Grabber," he mutters, voice low and rough. His hand finds yours, squeezing almost compulsively. "You... you see him, Y/N?"
"Sometimes... after you and I see each other, he'll follow me for a little bit..." you say quietly, you shift your body, putting one of your arms under his neck and putting your other around him, sliding your head under his chin.
His breath catches as you press against him, seeking the safety and comfort of his touch. Finney's arms come up automatically, pulling you close. His pulse is thrumming against your cheek, the rhythm of it a steady, anchoring thump-thump, thump-thump in your ear.
"How long has this been happening," he whispers, his voice edged with an undercurrent of something more dangerous—hatred, frustration, fear? A little bit of all three.
"Three years... I think. The first time that we met, I saw him watching from the opposite side of the theater..." you say quietly against his chest.
The movie theater, the place you two met when you still worked there, he'd asked you to sneak into the movie and watch it with him.
Finney remembers that day vividly. The theater, the movie, the way you smiled at him when you agreed to sit with him, not knowing what those few hours together would lead to.
He feels a pang of anger at the thought that the Grabber's shadow had been there too, Watching you, following you like some twisted stalker. His arms tighten around you unconsciously.
"You should've said something," he murmurs, guilt and worry mixing with the anger in his voice. "That was three years ago, baby."
"I know, I'm sorry..." you say quietly, burying your face into his neck.
"Damn it," he curses softly under his breath, but his hand on your hip is gentle as it smooths over the fabric of your clothes. "This ain't your fault, okay? You don't gotta apologize."
His jaw clenches, his chin rubbing against your temple. "God, I just... all this time, you been seein' him and didn't say anything... why, baby? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't wanna hurt you, especially after the basement. I saw you healing and I didn't wanna set you back..." You mumble.
He's quiet for a moment as he absorbs this, his thumb tracing mindless patterns against the side of your waist. His body tenses slightly at the mention of the basement, the memories still too fresh, but he pushes through it.
"So... you've just been dealin' with it all alone and keeping it from me for my sake," he says, a mix of gratitude and guilt in his tone. "Baby, you're so damn selfless sometimes, it pisses me off."
"Sorry..." you say quietly.
He exhales sharply, shaking his head as he presses a firm kiss to the crown of your hair.
"Stop saying that," he grumbles, but there’s no real bite to it. He sighs, tipping his head back against the pillow for a second before looking down at you again—his thumb brushing beneath your eye as if checking for tears.
"We'll figure this out," he promises quietly. "Together."
"There is no figuring it out, it doesn't go away." You mumble.
His jaw tightens at that, frustration flaring for a moment. He hates this—hates that you've had to deal with this for so long, hates that you didn't trust him with this sooner, and most of all, hates seeing you resign yourself to something this terrifying.
"Bullshit," he says through gritted teeth but in a low, controlled tone. "There's solutions to everything, baby. We will figure this out."
"There's not." You say again. "It's not like I can be hurt. Ghosts can't mess with the physical world, and I can't touch them either."
He exhales again, a low, rough sigh this time. His thumb rubs a circle on your hip, a steady, repetitive motion—a silent anchor between the two of you. Finney is no stranger to feeling powerless, and your words only seem to fuel the frustration that's slowly simmering beneath the surface.
"Yeah, maybe you can't be hurt directly," he concedes after a beat. His gaze flicks to the ceiling, jaw clenching again.
"But that doesn't mean you can't be traumatized by all this."
"It's fine. Nothing ever happens, he just stands a few meters from me and watches, just like every other ghost I've ever seen." you mumble.
Finney falls silent for a long moment, his fingers still tracing idle circles on your hip. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before—gruffer, rougher with something like disbelief and exasperation mixed together.
"Just because nothin’ happens doesn't mean it's fine," he says. "Fuckin' hell—that's like sayin' it was fine when the Grabber just had me locked up in that basement 'cause he hadn't done shit yet."
A pause.
His fingers stop moving for a second as if the realization hits him too hard to ignore.
"And I know damn well you wouldn’t have told me that was okay."
You sit up, pushing yourself up on your hands.
"I never said that, that's not what I meant, the basement was- Different... I'm- y-you were..." you stutter, struggling to find words.
Finney follows the motion, shifting underneath you until he's sitting upright, leaning back against the pillows to face you better. His eyes are intense as they track the struggle etched across your face. He's got a feeling he knows already where this is going, and his stomach clenches with a mix of anxiety and anger at the thought.
"Different how?" he prompts when you falter, his voice still holding that rough edge.
"T-the basement was real... i-it- the Grabber was real... But now he's dead, it's not the same because he can't hurt anyone-" you mumble. You slide up against him and the pillows and rest your head on his shoulder.
Finney relaxes a fraction as you nuzzle into him, his arm instinctively coming around your body to hold you closer. His fingers move over your back in slow, gentle circles, but the gesture is more for his own comfort right now, his thumb brushing the same repetitive path against your shoulder blade.
He's quiet for a moment, just feeling the weight of you against him, the warmth of your skin even through your clothes—a reminder that you're here, and most importantly, that you're alive.
"You're right," he mutters eventually.
You don't say anything for a moment before speaking. "It's okay, it doesn't matter. I'll tell you the next time I see him, okay?"
Finney stiffens slightly at your offer. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt as if he could keep you from even catching a glimpse of that bastard again just by sheer will alone.
"Fine," he grits out, exhaling through his nose. "But not 'cause it doesn't matter." His grip loosens slightly as he sighs again, thumb stroking over the jut of your collarbone absently.
"'Cause I wanna know when he's around," he admits, voice softer now but no less intense. "That way I can be there with you."
"Do you really wanna know when he's around?" you ask, glancing up at him.
Finney meets your gaze, unblinking, his blue eyes steady and unwavering despite the dark undercurrent that lurks beneath them. His fingers twitch against your back—whether from nerves or just sheer restraint isn’t clear.
"Yeah," he says simply.
He swallows hard before continuing, voice rough but firm: "I don't care if he's dead. If he’s gonna be a ghost creepin' around you? Then I'm gonna know every damn time."
You don't say anything for a moment.
"If you're sure, then there's something you have to know..."
Finney's entire body tenses when you hesitate. His gut twists in anticipation. He can sense that whatever you're about to say next, it's something significant. His eyes never leave your face, his expression a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
"What is it," he prompts quietly, trying to keep his voice steady. His thumb is still drawing those slow, idle circles on your back, an unconscious effort to soothe himself as well as you.
"I saw him outside, before I got here..." You say quietly. "H-he was in your front yard on the sidewalk, he watched me walk inside but then he disappeared when I looked away."
Finney's muscles coil tight, a quiet fury igniting at your words. The thought of the Grabber following you here, watching you from just outside his house... it's enough to send a wave of protectiveness through him that borders on possessive.
"Fucking hell, baby," he mutters through gritted teeth. "How long ago was that?"
"I'm sorry, I-I shouldn't have said anything..." You say quietly, pushing yourself smaller against him and the pillows behind you.
The moment you shrink back, Finney swears internally. He didn't mean to snap—he's not mad at you, it's the situation that's driving him up a wall. The fear and anger he's feeling are directed at the Grabber himself, not you. But seeing you close off like this... it kills him.
"Babe, no," he says softly, tone contrite now. "I'm not pissed at you, okay? I'm pissed at that bastard, not you. Don't close off, please."
"I'm sorry..." You say, curling into a small ball against him, hiding your face in your hands.
Finney lets out a frustrated exhale—not at you, never at you—but because he can't stand seeing you withdraw like this. He reaches for your wrists gently but firmly, carefully pulling your hands away from your face so he can look into your eyes again.
"Hey," he murmurs, "I need to know this shit. It ain’t on you to deal with alone anymore."
A pause as his thumbs trace the delicate bones of your wrists.
"And quit apologizin', dammit," he adds quietly, "You got nothing to be sorry for."
"Okay, I'm sorry..." You mumble, turning over into your side, hiding your face instead in the crook of Finney's neck.
Finney's mouth quirks briefly at your mumbled, automatic apology—a small show of reluctant amusement despite the situation. His arms wrap around you when you turn, pulling you tighter against him, your face fitting perfectly in the crook of his shoulder.
"You're such a pain in my ass sometimes," he mutters, and this time, there's a hint of affectionate humor in it. Not that he'd ever readily admit it, but your tendency for apologies—even when there's nothing to apologize for—is damn endearing at times.
"I know." You mumble into his neck.
Finney exhales a soft, tired chuckle, his breath ruffling your hair slightly. His fingers splay against your back—warm, solid pressure—keeping you anchored to him like he’s afraid you’ll drift away otherwise.
"Yeah," he murmurs, "but y'know what? That ain't changing nothing. You're still stuck with me."
And that's as close to "I love you" as Finney Blake gets sometimes.
<3
The end.
Ts was kinda ass. srry chat. tss was buns. dog shit. my bad. I'm low-key just bored (and the curse hasn't gotten me yet). Also, I don't really like writing love/romantic type stuff, so if this was bad it's because I don't ever write stuff like this frfr.