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Finney always lit up before he spoke.
It was a ritual now, flick the cheap lighter, inhale, let the ember glow soft and orange against the dusk. He held smoke the way most people held memories: tight, stubborn, maybe a little scared to let it go.
You stood next to him on the cracked sidewalk behind your building, hands in your pockets, listening to the soft fizz of the cigarette as he took another drag. The air smelled like summer heat trapped in bricks… and the thin, chemical bite of whatever discount brand he’d scrounged up this week.
“You don’t have to stand out here with me, y’know,” Finney murmured, voice roughened more from his nerves than the smoke. “I know you hate this stuff.”
“I don’t hate it,” you said. “I just don’t… need it.”
You gave him a small crooked smile. “Besides, you think I’m gonna leave you out here alone? Bad idea. You’d get philosophical and start talking to the trash cans again.”
Finney snorted, a weak smile tugging at his lips. “That was one time—”
“And I’m never letting you forget it.”
He passed the cigarette toward you automatically, an unspoken invitation, a habit formed from years of him convincing himself he was fine and you quietly insisting he wasn’t alone. You took a quick drag, the smoke burning your throat, then handed it back.
Finney didn’t say thank you, but he exhaled softer this time.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just weighted, like wet clothes clinging to skin. Finney tapped ash off the end and glanced sideways at you, his brown eyes glazed, distant.
You knew that look.
He wasn’t really here.
“Where’d you go just now?” you asked quietly.
His jaw tensed. “Nowhere.”
“You always say that.”
Finney let the cigarette hang from his lips, staring out past the graffiti-tagged dumpsters, past the street, past the whole damn city.
“Sometimes I can’t tell,” he admitted. “Whether it’s… memories or nightmares. Or just my brain being an asshole.”
Your chest knotted. Even after years, he still flinched at loud knocks, still tensed when someone walked too close behind him, still slept with a bat under his bed, and still insisted he was “fine.”
Finney took another drag, then tilted his head, eyes half-lidded.
“You remember when we were thirteen?” he asked.
“Every minute,” you said.
“Sometimes I think I’m still there,” he whispered. “In that basement. And everything else since then is just… something I dreamed up to make it easier.”
You stepped closer, bumping your shoulder gently against his.
“You’re here,” you murmured. “And I’m here. And he’s gone.”
Finney swallowed hard, the tip of his cigarette trembling.
“…Yeah,” he said. “I know. It’s just, when I get high, it feels like I can finally breathe without thinking about him.”
“And when you’re not high?”
Finney hesitated. Then, almost too quietly to hear:
“I think about you.”
The wind shifted, blowing the smoke between you. Finney looked startled by his own honesty, like the words had slipped out faster than he could catch them.
Your heartbeat thudded once, hard.
“You think about me?” you asked, voice low, careful.
He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks reddening despite the drugs dulling him. “Not in a weird way. Just… you make it feel like the world didn’t end back then. Like there’s a version of me that didn’t die in that basement.”
You exhaled slowly. “Finn…”
He looked up at you, open and raw in a way he never used to be, even when you were kids, even when you were the only steady thing he had left.
“Is that bad?” he asked.
“No,” you said, stepping closer so your breath warmed his cheek. “Not bad at all.”
Finney’s gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes, pupils wide and dark. The cigarette slipped from his fingers, forgotten, ember dying on the concrete.
You weren’t sure if he leaned in first or if you did.
But the space between you finally, after five years of fear, silence, shaking hands and late-night talks, collapsed just enough. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. Not quite. His forehead just rested against yours, breath shaky.
“Stay with me?” he whispered.
“I always do,” you said.
And for the first time in years, he looked like he believed you.
Finney didn’t remember falling asleep. He rarely did anymore. Most nights, sleep hit him like a shove, too fast, too dark, too deep, because he exhausted himself on purpose. Headaches, cheap cigarettes, choking down enough weed to make the room swim… anything to shut his brain up long enough for unconsciousness to take him.
But tonight, it didn’t save him.
Tonight, he dreamed.
And the dream dragged him back to the basement.
Except this time he wasn’t the one down there.
It was you.
You were the one trapped in that concrete tomb, wrists bruised from rope, clothes torn, eyes wide and wet with fear you tried to hide and failed. You were the one listening to footsteps creaking above. You were the one pressed against the wall, breath shaking as the padlock rattled. You were the one choking on your own heartbeat.
And Finney, paralyzed, voiceless, invisible, could only watch.
The Grabber’s shadow stretched across the floor. There was that laugh, that awful choking-laugh, and Finney tried to scream, tried to run, tried to throw himself between you and what was coming, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe. All he could do was witness the same horrors he endured, now happening to you. The fear. The pain. The begging. The helplessness.
You called his name.
Not once.
Not twice.
Over and over.
Finney clawed at the dream like it had walls, like he could tear his way out, but every time he reached you, the floor swallowed him. Every time he stretched out a hand, your outline dissolved like dust.
And your voice kept breaking.
Kept calling for him.
Kept sounding like you were dying.
When he finally woke up, he wasn’t sure he had.
His eyes flew open to his bedroom ceiling, but he was still trapped in the feeling of that basement, sweat-soaked, shaking so violently he almost slid off the mattress. His chest caved inward, ribs squeezing like someone had wrapped wire around them and pulled tight.
Air wouldn’t come.
His breath stuttered, shallow and rapid, and his vision blurred white at the edges. He tried to sit up but his body wouldn’t cooperate; his arms buckled under him, strength gone like it had been sucked out in the night. His legs felt numb, tingling, gelatinous, like they didn’t belong to him.
He rolled off the bed and hit the floor hard.
The sound tore from him before he could stop it, half gasp, half cry, raw and desperate. His palms slapped the floorboards, trying to push himself upright, but they trembled so violently he couldn’t even lock his elbows. His knees buckled again. His whole body felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut wrong.
He couldn’t get up.
He couldn’t breathe.
His heart hammered against his ribs with a sharp, frantic rhythm that hurt, every beat like a fist from the inside. His throat closed, his chest clenched, and heat flooded his skin so fast he thought he might pass out.
“Not you,” he choked, voice shaking. “God—please, not you—”
He dragged himself forward, crawling like the air might be easier to reach somewhere else. He reached the wall and pressed his forehead to it, trying to ground himself, but all he felt was cold drywall and the echoing phantom of your scream from the dream.
His stomach lurched. Sweat dripped off his jaw onto the floor. His fingers curled so tight his knuckles ached.
He couldn’t stop seeing you down there.
Couldn’t stop hearing those terrified breaths.
Couldn’t stop imagining himself helpless again, watching you suffer everything he never wanted anyone else to suffer, especially not you.
Especially not you.
His heart thrashed harder. A sob tore itself out of him before he could swallow it.
He didn’t cry often. He hated crying. But now, on his hands and knees, trembling and gasping and unable to stand, the fear swallowed him whole.
He had survived the Grabber.
But the idea of you not surviving, of you being broken the same way-
That was something his body couldn’t handle.
“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking, forehead still pressed hard against the wall. “Please be okay… please be okay…”
Another wave of trembling hit him, harsher than the last.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He wished you were here.
God, he wished you were here.
Not to reassure him.
Not to calm him down.
But just to prove you were alive and whole and out of that basement that wasn’t real but still felt real enough to destroy him.
Finney tried to breathe again.
The breath crumpled in his chest.
And he stayed like that on the floor, shaking, sweating, choking on fear, until the sunlight creeping through his blinds finally warmed the back of his neck and reminded him he wasn’t thirteen anymore.
But he didn’t feel eighteen either.
He felt like a kid trapped in a nightmare with no way out.
And worst of all—
the nightmare wasn’t about him this time.
It was about losing you.
Finney didn’t even remember getting off the floor. One moment he was shaking on his hands and knees, and the next he was bolting out the front door with no shoes, no coat, no sense, just raw panic propelling him forward like something was chasing him.
You.
It was you.
You were the only thing in his head.
He sprinted down the street so fast his vision tunneled, breath sawing harshly in and out of his chest. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. The cold morning air slapped his sweat-soaked skin, but nothing slowed him down. He practically tripped twice, stumbling over uneven sidewalk and grabbing mailboxes to keep from face-planting, but he kept going.
He had to see you.
Had to know you were safe.
Had to erase the nightmare with the reality of your face, your voice, your smile.
By the time he reached your house, Finney was drenched, sweat sticking his shirt to his back, hair curling damp around his forehead. His heart was still punching against his ribs, faster than he could breathe. He didn’t bother knocking properly; he just hit the door with a shaking fist, once, twice-
Your sibling opened it mid-knock, blinking at him like he was something wild that had wandered onto the porch.
Finney must’ve looked insane.
His chest heaved with every gasp. His pupils were blown wide from fear. His hands shook as if he’d just clawed his way out of that basement again. He couldn’t even get the words out properly, just fragmented stuttering, voice cracking, breath hitching between sentences.
“Is-Is he here? Please-I need to- Is he okay?”
Your sibling stared at him, completely thrown. Their expression shifted from confused to vaguely concerned to “should I call someone?” all within two seconds.
“Uh… he’s upstairs?” they said slowly, like they were trying not to spook a feral animal. “He’s fine. He got home late but… he’s fine.”
The relief hit Finney so hard his knees nearly buckled.
He muttered something that might’ve been thank you, probably repeated it five or six times, then staggered past them into the house, dragging himself toward the stairs like gravity had doubled. Every step felt heavy, weighted, but he forced his body forward. His fingers tightened on the railing, knuckles white, breath still uneven as he made his way up.
He’d never been inside your house before.
Not once.
All the years of friendship, and the closest he’d gotten was the front lawn, leaning on his bike waiting for you to come barreling out the door with that crooked grin of yours.
Now he was trespassing past family photos, down a hallway he’d never walked, searching for the door with your name on a sticker. When he found it, crooked letters, peeling at the edges, his heart kicked into a painful rhythm.
He didn’t knock.
He didn’t think to.
He pushed the door open with the same fear that had driven him out of his own house—
And froze.
You were standing near your bed, shirt lifted just enough to expose the lower part of your abdomen, a capped syringe in one hand, the other pressing gently over the injection site. Your breath hissed slightly in discomfort, routine, practiced, unbothered.
But to Finney?
To someone who’d watched kids in damp alleyways collapse after sticking needles into their arms?
To someone who’d leaned too close to his own darkness more times than he liked to admit?
To someone who’d spent years drowning nightmares in smoke and ash and any distraction he could find?
It looked like you were pumping heroin straight into your stomach.
Finney’s heart stopped.
His face went bone white. His stomach dropped so hard he swayed, catching himself on the doorframe. Horror cracked through him like lightning.
“H—Hey!” he blurted out, voice jagged with panic. “What the hell are you doing?!”
The words tore out of him too loud, too shocked, too raw-
because in his mind, the nightmare hadn’t ended.
You weren’t safe.
You weren’t okay.
You were hurting yourself, destroying yourself, right in front of him.
And he couldn’t breathe all over again.
You jerked your shirt back down the second Finney’s voice cracked through your room, the syringe nearly slipping from your hand. The shock of it made you curse under your breath as you fumbled for your medical kit, trying to snap it shut before he saw more than he already had.
“What the—Finney?” you barked, halfway between confusion and irritation. “Dude, what are you even—”
Then you actually looked at him.
Barefoot.
No jacket.
Pajama pants wet from snow up to his shins.
His arms trembling, breath hitting the air in panicked little clouds, like he’d sprinted through a blizzard straight into your room.
“What the hell are you doing here like that?” you demanded, pointing at his freezing, half-soaked state. “It’s winter, Finn. Winter. There’s literally a foot of snow outside. You look like you crawled out of a freezer.”
Finney didn’t answer.
He was too busy staring wide-eyed at the syringe you were trying to shove into your kit, pupils darting between your hands and your stomach like he couldn’t decide whether to scream or cry.
“Y-You—why were you—” His voice cracked, that same awful raw panic from moments ago. “I thought you were—Oh God, you don’t even smoke, you hate smoking, and then- I walk in and you’re- and that’s not- people don’t even-”
He was spiraling.
Hard.
And now it made sense.
You exhaled sharply, your irritation melting into bewildered exasperation.
“Hold on,” you said, snapping the kit shut and holding your hands up. “Finney. Stop. Stop-stop-stop. Dude. Do you seriously think I’m shooting up?”
Finney’s face said yes.
Loudly.
Emphatically.
Like his heart was still stuck in a nightmare he hadn’t woken from.
You stared at him for a long, stunned moment.
Then you said the only thing that came to mind:
“…You think I’d inject heroin into my *stomach*?”
Finney blinked. “…I—well—I didn’t—”
“That’s not even where that goes!” you exclaimed, gesturing wildly. “If I were doing heroin, which I’m not- I wouldn’t just… pick a random spot above my hip like an idiot. I know basic anatomy!”
Finney’s expression wavered between confusion, fear, and that same gut-deep concern that had dragged him across the neighborhood.
Meanwhile, your bed was getting drenched with melting snow from his feet.
“And dude, your toes are turning purple,” you added. “Why did you run over here? What happened?”
He swallowed hard, breath shuddering.
“I had a nightmare,” Finney whispered, voice shaking again. “About you. And I thought- if something happened- if you were taken- if you were hurt, I- I couldn’t-”
His words broke, and you felt your own irritation drain away completely.
The syringe didn’t matter.
The snow didn’t matter.
All that was left was Finney, terrified out of his mind, because losing you was the one thing he couldn’t survive again.
You dragged both hands down your face, groaning into your palms like the universe had personally decided to ruin your morning.
“Okay. Fine. You know what?” you muttered, stepping over the trail of melting snow Finney was creating on your floor. “Close the door. You’re freezing. And stop looking at me like I’m a junkie.”
Finney shut the door with a shaky thud, still staring at the syringe case like it might attack him.
You marched to your dresser, irritation simmering under your skin, and grabbed the first pile of clothes you could reach, sweatpants, socks, one of your older hoodies, and tossed them at him.
“Put those on,” you snapped. “You’re soaking wet. I’m not explaining anything while you’re turning into a popsicle.”
Finney caught the clothes with clumsy, numb fingers, blinking in confusion but obediently tugging the hoodie over his head.
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.
God. You really, really didn’t want to do this.
But Finney was staring at you like you were dying, or dangerous, or both, and the misunderstanding was so catastrophically wrong that you couldn’t just leave it alone.
So you sat down on the edge of your bed, rubbing your hands together for warmth, or maybe just nerves.
“Look,” you said flatly. “I’m not doing drugs. I’m not shooting up. That wasn’t heroin. It was testosterone.”
Finney paused mid, pant leg, frowning. “…Testosterone… like… steroids?”
“No,” you groaned. “Not like steroids.”
You took a breath, eyes drifting anywhere but his.
“I’m trans. FTM. That’s… female to male. So it’s hormone replacement. It’s what makes my voice deepen and all that other crap.”
Finney froze.
The room suddenly felt too quiet, too bright, too raw.
You hated every second of it.
“I wasn’t planning on ever talking about this,” you went on, voice dry and tired. “I’m stealth. Or, was stealth. I don’t tell people. I don’t want to tell people. There aren’t a lot of us around here and I didn’t want the whole school making it a thing.”
You waved a hand vaguely at the kit.
“But yeah. That’s what it was. Not heroin. Just hormones. Yay.”
Finney stared at you with wide, soft eyes that made the back of your neck burn.
You scowled.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered. “I’m already cranky.”
But Finney didn’t stop.
Not even after he pulled the sweatpants up and sat beside you, dripping snow onto your floor. He just kept staring like he was seeing you in real time for the first time, which only made you more annoyed because you had not planned to have this conversation wearing yesterday’s shirt and bed hair.
“Say something,” you grumbled.
Finney swallowed, voice small but steady. “I’m… I’m glad you’re okay.”
You blinked.
He wasn’t confused.
He wasn’t grossed out.
He wasn’t backing away.
He was just relieved.
Which almost made this entire embarrassing mess feel… lighter.
You flopped backward onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Next time,” you said, voice muffled, “maybe knock before barging into someone’s room and accusing them of hard drugs.”
Finney let out a weak, shaky laugh, and finally, finally, some of the terror in his eyes eased.
You lay there staring at the ceiling for a few seconds, heartbeat finally slowing, the edge of irritation fading into something else, something more vulnerable, more unsure. Finney sat stiff beside you in your hoodie, sleeves hanging past his hands, curls damp with melted snow. He looked like he’d been dragged out of a nightmare and dropped into your bedroom.
But he hadn’t said anything real yet. Not about this. Not about you.
So you turned your head slightly, looking at him from where you lay.
“…You gonna give me more of a reaction than that?” you muttered. “You barged into my house like the building was on fire. I think I earned something.”
Finney startled a little, like he hadn’t expected you to ask. His fingers twisted into the hem of your hoodie, and he stared down at them, breathing shallowly. That was classic Finney Blake, quiet, hesitant, like words were something he had to coax out of himself. Years of being silenced, beaten down, ignored… it made him talk like someone afraid he’d get hit for speaking out of turn.
He swallowed. “I- I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”
“Say whatever you’re thinking,” you said. “Preferably something that won’t make me regret telling you.”
Finney’s eyebrows knit together, and he finally lifted his gaze toward you. His voice trembled, but not from fear, more like he was overwhelmed, holding too much emotion in a frame too small for it.
“I’m not… freaked out,” he said. “I’m not… weird about it. I just…”
He paused, breath catching.
“I had this nightmare last night. About you. And I woke up and I couldn’t- I couldn’t breathe. I thought- I thought you were gone. Like the Grabber had you. Like you were stuck in that basement and no one knew.”
Your chest pulled tight.
Finney Blake didn’t talk about the Grabber. Not unless he was half asleep, high, or having a breakdown.
But he was talking now.
He ran a shaky hand over his face, rubbing at the darkness under his eyes. “I ran here because I needed to see you. I didn’t care what you were doing. I didn’t care if you were mad. I just needed to know you were okay.”
You shifted, pushing yourself up on your elbows so you could actually look at him. He looked… raw. Honest in a way Finney rarely let himself be.
“And when I saw you injecting something,” he continued, voice cracking, “my brain just-” He snapped his fingers weakly. “Went to the worst place. Because I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t-” He stopped himself, breath stuttering.