Page 41 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

I nod. "Mostly."

"What was she like?"

The question softens something inside me. "Stubborn."

Finn laughs. "I can see that."

I ignore him. "She never cared what people thought."

"That sounds useful."

"It was." My smile fades slightly. "She used to tell me the sea only respects honesty."

Finn considers that. "Sounds very smart for an old lady"

"She was," I exhale, the answer coming quietly. For a while we are quiet, the absence not uncomfortable, just thoughtful.

Eventually he says, "You miss her."

I watch the waves below. Every day. The words remain trapped inside my chest. Instead I say, "She was the only person who stayed."

The moment the sentence leaves my mouth, I wish I could take it back. Finn doesn't respond immediately, his gaze remaining on me, patient, waiting. The silence stretches, then he asks, "You're afraid people will leave."

Not a question. An observation.

I stop walking. The wind tears through the cliffs around us. Part of me wants to deny it, and laugh it off. Neither would be true.

I stare at the ground. "Everyone does eventually."

His expression changes, the humor disappearing completely. I continue before I lose my nerve. "The town never wanted me." The words come easier than expected. "My parents died." I swallow. "Then my grandmother."

The old ache returns, familiar, persistent. "I learned a long time ago that people leave."

Finn watches me carefully. I force a smile. "See? This is why I don't talk about myself."

His jaw tightens. "Reina."

I look away, the cliffs suddenly seeming very interesting. "You know what the worst part is?" The question leaves me quietly . Finn waits.

I laugh without humor. "Every time someone gets close, I start wondering how long they'll stay."

The confession hangs between us, raw, uncomfortable, honest. I immediately regret saying it.

Finn remains silent long enough that I finally glance toward him. His expression isn't pity. Thank the stars. I don't think I could survive that. Instead, he looks thoughtful. Almost sad.

Then he says, "I know that feeling."

The answer catches me unaware. "You do?"

He looks toward the sea, the wind pushing dark hair across his forehead. "My father died when I was young." The words arrive quietly, without drama, without self-pity. Simple facts.

I wait as he continues. "After that, nothing felt right." His gaze remains fixed on the horizon. "Not the town, not the harbor, not the house."

Something tightens in my chest, because I recognize that feeling. Too well.

"I kept thinking it would eventually feel normal again." A faint smile appears, humorless. "It never did."

I study him, the vulnerability in his voice feeling rare, important. Finn usually carries himself like someone impossible to shake. Seeing the cracks changes something.