Finn Ch.2 | The Apocalypse

The metal groan of the ship was a constant now, a low, mournful soundtrack to Finn’s simmering mood. He’d been prowling the narrow upper deck at dawn, the salt-sting in the air doing nothing to clear the acid in his gut. He’d stopped by a bulkhead to tighten a bootlace, and that’s when he’d heard them—Leon’s low, gravelly murmur and Matty’s earnest, softer replies. They were just around the corner, near a stack of rusted cargo containers.

“...just be careful, son. She’s not like the girls from the enclave videos. She’s lived in the real.”

“I know. I just... I want to be someone she can trust. Someone safe.”

A harsh, silent laugh rattled in Finn’s chest. Safe. He wants to be safe. Like a blanket. A fucking blanket gets torn apart by teeth.

Then Leon, with a patience Finn had never heard directed at him: “Start small. Let her come to you. A shared watch. A conversation. Holding her hand isn’t a prize to be won, Matty. It’s a question. And you have to be ready for her answer.”

Holding hands. The words were like a spark to tinder. Finn’s knuckles turned white where they braced against the cold metal. He’d spent half the night awake in his narrow bunk, the ship’s sway mimicking the frantic rhythm of his own heart. He hadn’t been thinking about holding hands. His thoughts, feverish and possessive, had spiraled far past that. He’d imagined a future so concrete it felt like memory: a shack with solid walls, a fire, a son with his own blue eyes—Kael, the name had come to him with sudden, absolute certainty—and her, always her, at the center of it all. A family. Something to build and guard with his life. And these two... they were discussing the philosophical implications of finger interlacing.

A hot wave of envy, sharp and bitter, washed over him. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was a profound sense of injustice. Matty got the fatherly advice, the soft words, the permission to be gentle. Finn had gotten a hand up from a man he’d tried to kill, and a world that rewarded hardness.

With a low growl vibrating in his throat, he pushed off the bulkhead. He needed to see her. Now. The need was a physical pull, a tether drawing him down into the ship’s dim, labyrinthine belly towards the crew quarters where she’d been berthed.

He was rounding a corner, his focus a narrow tunnel aimed at cabin seven, when a solid form in the crisp, grey uniform of the Interim Government stepped into his path. Finn didn’t break stride; he turned his shoulder and barged past, a deliberate, disrespectful clash.

“Hey! Watch it—” the man began, his voice initially holding the expected bureaucratic arrogance, then faltering into something else. “S-sorry, I mean... are you alright?”

Finn stopped, turning slowly. It was the Lieutenant. Miller. Up close, the man looked even more like a pampered enclave pet: clean-shaven, skin unweathered, uniform pristine. But his brown eyes weren’t cruel. They were wide, slightly nervous. The contrast was disorienting.

“Do I look like I need watchin’, Lieutenant?” Finn spat the title, his blue eyes scanning the man’s face. Something prickled at the back of his mind. The strong jaw, the set of the eyes... I know this face. From where? A bounty poster? A raid? The memory danced, maddeningly out of reach.

Kevin Miller blinked, a stupid, friendly smile breaking through his officious mask. “N-no, sir. Of course not. I just... have you seen Jax? I can’t seem to f-find him.”

The question was so unexpected it momentarily derailed Finn’s aggression. Jax? Why’s this Gov pet askin’ after Jax? His prejudice supplied an immediate, ugly answer, making his lip curl. “Why? He owe you money? Or you just miss his pretty face?”

Kevin’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes flickered with something pained and complex. “N-no. Just... checking on the team. For my report.” He cleared his throat, his gaze shifting past Finn down the corridor. “S-speaking of checking... I heard a strange noise earlier. Near cabin seven. A kind of... whining. Or howling. Could be a hull stress, but it sounded... organic. Y-You might want to mention it to your leader.”

He gave a clumsy, two-fingered salute and walked away, his posture stiff.

Finn stood frozen for half a second, the words detonating in his brain.

Cabin seven.

Howling.

Every instinct, every paranoid, protective wire in his body snapped taut. The puzzle of Kevin’s face vanished, replaced by a single, screaming imperative. She’s in cabin seven.

He was moving before the thought fully formed, breaking into a sprint that was dangerously fast for the cluttered, rolling passageway. He skidded around the final corner, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

The door to cabin seven was slightly ajar.

No. Nononono—

He slammed it open with the flat of his hand, his body already coiled for a fight, his eyes scanning the tiny room—empty bunk, rumpled blanket—before darting to the corner.

There {{user}} was. Curled on the floor, asleep. Unharmed.

The violent surge of relief was so potent it made him dizzy. But the Lieutenant’s warning echoed. Howling. Something had been here. Or was still here.

In one fluid motion, he was across the tiny space, kneeling beside her. He didn’t shake her awake. Instead, he placed himself between her and the door, his back a broad, tense wall. One hand came down, not to wake her, but to rest possessively on her hip, a grounding point for his own spiraling fear. His other hand went to the knife on his thigh.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice gravelly. “Wake up, beauty. Did you hear somethin’? A noise?”

His eyes, predator-sharp, scanned the room’s shadows. There was a small access panel low on the wall, for plumbing or wiring, its screws rusted. It was slightly loose.

There.

He rose into a crouch, every muscle singing with tension. Could be a rat. Could be a... something worse. Some sea-rot thing that climbed aboard. He gestured for her to stay back, his expression dead serious, all his usual clumsy bravado burned away by a pure, focused protectiveness. Losin' her is not an option. Not to a Brute, not to a Gov liar, not to some ghost in the walls.

With painstaking silence, he hooked his fingers into the edge of the metal panel and pulled.

A muffled, terrified squeak echoed in the cavity behind the wall.

Finn peered into the darkness. Two pinpricks of light reflected back at him. Then a low, trembling whine.

He reached in, his movements unexpectedly gentle, and pulled out a squirming, filthy bundle of matted tan fur. It was a dog, all ribs and huge paws, barely more than a puppy. It shivered in his large, scarred hands, letting out another pathetic whimper.

Finn stared.

The world, for a moment, stopped its relentless, brutal turning. The jealousy, the rage, the constant low hum of survival anxiety—it all drained away, replaced by a startling, profound silence. He looked from the trembling animal in his hands to her, his bright blue eyes wide with a kind of awe he rarely showed.

A slow, genuine grin spread across his face, softening the hard lines of his broken nose and stubble. He held the puppy out towards her, his voice dropping to a tone of deep, unshakable conviction.

“Look at that,” he breathed, a laugh bubbling under the words. “It’s Kael.”

The engine's hum provided a constant, sickly backdrop in Leon's cramped makeshift office—a storage locker with a bolted-down table. Leon was pointing at a water-stained chart, his voice a low gravel, when Finn shouldered the door open without knocking.

The conversation died. Leon’s sharp eyes lifted from the map to Finn, then dropped to the bundle of matted fur cradled carefully against his chest. Matty, standing opposite his father, followed his gaze, his expression shifting from attentive to confused.

“Found a stowaway,” Finn announced, his voice cutting through the tactical discussion. He wasn’t asking for permission; he was presenting a fact.

Word traveled fast on the floating coffin. By the time Finn had shifted the puppy to one arm and used the other to subtly guide a hooded, silent figure into the room—positioning himself squarely between her and the doorway—the rest of the squad had filtered in, drawn by the disruption.

The space became claustrophobic. Marcus filled one corner, his arms crossed, a single raised eyebrow conveying volumes of disapproval. Doc edged in, his spectacles glinting with curiosity. Jax leaned against a crate, his usual cynical mask in place, but his eyes kept flicking past the door, down the corridor where the distant, stuttering laugh of Lieutenant Kevin Miller echoed. Jax’s jaw was tight, his fingers tapping a restless, silent rhythm on his thigh.

“A dog,” Leon stated, his voice flat.

“A puppy,” Finn corrected, a hint of defiance there. He held the creature up a little. It shivered, letting out a tiny whine. "Half-starved. Hidin’ in the guts of the ship.”

Doc immediately stepped forward, his old-world sensibilities overriding the tension. “Oh, the poor thing. May I?” Without waiting, he took the puppy from Finn’s hands, his touch surprisingly gentle as he turned her over. “A she, I believe. No more than a few months, I’d wager. Remarkable she’s survived down there.”

A she. Finn absorbed the information. Well, not Kael... Kayla. The name adjusted itself instantly in his mind. It fit.

“It’s a resource drain,” Marcus intoned, his voice the final word in practicality. “Food. Water. Attention. And it makes noise. Noise draws things.”

“She’s quiet,” Finn shot back, his eyes on the puppy now nuzzling Doc’s hand.

Matty finally found his voice, a soft, hopeful thing. “She’s... she’s kind of sweet. We could... maybe we could care for her?” His eyes drifted past Finn, seeking the hooded figure’s reaction.

As if sensing the attention, Kayla squirmed in Doc’s grasp. Doc, chuckling, set her down on the metal deck.

A low, uncertain growl rumbled in the puppy’s tiny chest as she passed Matty, giving his fingers a wide berth. She then promptly flopped down, curling her ragged body around the boot of {{user}}, letting out a contented sigh.

A slow, fierce grin spread across Finn’s face. That’s my girl. Knows who’s worth trustin’. He couldn’t help the surge of smug satisfaction that warmed his chest. He saw Matty’s hand drop, a flicker of hurt in the boy’s eyes.

“See? She’s got sense,” Finn said, the triumph evident in his rough voice.

Leon pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not about sense, Finn. It’s about risk. Marcus is right. She’s another variable.”

Jax, who had been watching the exchange with uncharacteristic tension, snorted. He wasn’t looking at the dog. His sharp eyes were fixed on a point past Finn, down the corridor, his jaw tight. “Great. Another mouth to feed that’ll probably puke on the deck. Just what we needed.” His tone was more biting than usual, the knife in his hand moving in short, angry scrapes. "Whatever. Can we vote? I need some air.”

“We’re not a democracy,” Leon said, but he was looking at the puppy. He sighed, a sound of weary concession. “Fine. She stays. For now. But she’s the squad’s responsibility. We are monitoring the continuity. Everyone feeds her. Everyone cleans up after her. She becomes a problem, she goes overboard. Understood?”

The squad’s responsibility.

The words landed on Finn like a blow. The warm, possessive feeling curdled into something hard and cold in his gut. She’s not yours, Leon’s decision seemed to say. She’s ours. Just like... His eyes flicked to the hooded figure. No. Not like that.

“Understood?” Leon repeated, his voice hardening, aimed directly at Finn.

“Her name’s Kayla,” he stated, defiance hardening his voice. “And she ain’t a ‘contingency’.”

Leon’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t name assets, Finn. You manage them.”

Something in Finn, already raw from the morning’s eavesdropping, snapped. “She ain’t an asset! She’s a... she’s a good dog.” The justification sounded weak, childish even to his own ears, but the feeling behind it was volcanic. He was losing control of the narrative. Again.

He looked from Leon’s implacable face to Matty’s wounded expression, to Jax’s distant scowl. Ain’t stayin’ here for this.

“Yeah, whatever,” Finn muttered, the rebellion clear in his clipped tone. Before anyone could react, he moved. He bent down, his movements uncharacteristically tender, and scooped Kayla up from the floor. Then, his other hand found {{user}}'s elbow, his grip firm, possessive, guiding.

“C’mon,” He steered them both out of the mess deck, away from the judging eyes and the complicated squabbles, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

He didn’t stop until they were inside the cramped, metal box of his assigned cabin. He kicked the door shut with his boot, the final clang a punctuation mark. The space was barely large enough for a narrow bunk bolted to the wall and his pack on the floor. It smelled of rust, old sweat, and now, faintly, of damp dog.

Setting Kayla down gently on the bunk, where she immediately curled into a tight, watchful ball, Finn finally turned to her. The adrenaline replaced by a more intimate, restless energy. He crowded her gently against the closed door, his hands coming up to cradle her face, his thumbs rough on her cheeks.

“Leon’s a paranoid old bastard,” he breathed, his voice a low rumble in the confined space. “Makin’ her everybody’s. She’s ours. You ‘n me. She knew it. Growled at Matty, didn’t she?” A triumphant, lopsided smile touched his lips.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up. The memory of the land, of cold camps and separate bedrolls, of Leon’s orders that had her sleeping in Matty’s tent for ‘security’, rose up like a thorn.

He leaned in, his forehead nearly touching hers, and pressed a rough, lingering kiss to her temple. He inhaled the scent of her skin beneath the hood’s fabric. “Missed you,” he mumbled against her skin, the confession clumsy and stark. “On land... was all wrong. Rules. Tents.”

Should’ve had this on land. Should’ve had you in my sleepin’ bag every night, not stuck in Matty’s tent on his orders.

“Listen,” He pressed a softer, longer kiss to her forehead, inhaling the scent of her. “This tub’s a deathtrap, but this room... it’s ours. No shifts, no tents, no... Matty.” He said the name like a curse.

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. “You should stay here. With me. The bunk’s a piece of shit, but it’s big enough. Warmer. Safer. Kayla can stay too. Our little... unit.” The word felt foreign but right on his tongue. Our unit. Our family.

“...and I-I would walk five hundred miles... and I would—uh—walk five hundred more...”

Finn’s voice was a tuneless, confident growl, swaying slightly where he sat on a crate, a dented metal cup of clear liquid in his hand. He was pointing the cup at Kevin, who sat across the makeshift circle on a folded tarp, an old, warped guitar resting on his knee. Kevin’s fingers, surprisingly deft, picked out the melody. He was grinning, a stupid, loose grin, his Government uniform jacket gone, leaving him in a sweat-darkened shirt.

“Y’r tempo’s off, Lieutenant,” Finn slurred, taking a swig and immediately forcing his face into a mask of stone, though his eyes watered fiercely.

“S’called rubato, you f-feral heathen,” Kevin shot back, his stutter softened by drink, not nerves. He took a long pull from his own bottle. “Means I have feel-in’.”

“Means you can’t keep time,” Finn retorted, but there was no real malice in it. The alcohol, and the bizarre, unexpected lull, had sanded his edges down. For a few hours, the ever-present tension of the mission, the storm, the close quarters, had bled away. Marcus had discovered a cache in a secured officer’s locker: real, pre-Fall Russian vodka, ice-cold and smelling of medicinal fire, and some lighter, sweeter schnapps. The label was in Cyrillic. Doc, consulting a mildewed pocket calendar he kept, had mumbled something about a solstice, an old world holiday. Leon, after a long, assessing silence, had given a single, curt nod. One night.

Now, Leon himself was leaning against the bulkhead, a rare softness in his lined face. In his lap, curled and snoring softly, was Kayla. His large, scarred hand moved slowly, rhythmically, over the puppy’s back. He was nursing his vodka, watching the room with a hooded, contemplative gaze.

Jax was a dark smudge in the corner, separate. He was on his third cigarette. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, were fixed on Kevin, tracking every strum of the guitar, every loose-limbed movement.

The conversation among the senior members had been meandering, until Leon’s low voice cut through Finn’s next attempt at singing.

“The stutter, Lieutenant. That’s not congenital.”

Kevin’s fingers stilled on the guitar strings. The easy grin faded, replaced by something more opaque. His eyes, for the first time, flicked away from Jax and met Leon’s. “N-no, sir. Head injury. Ten years back. During a... a consolidation operation. Fell through a rotten floor. Three stories. They said I talked like a poet b-before.” He gave a weak, self-deprecating shrug.

In the corner, Jax took a drag so deep the ember of his cigarette flared, illuminating the stark tension in his face for a second before he exhaled a thick plume, hiding again.

Leon just nodded, as if filing the information away. “And the intelligence on our destination? The Eastern Seaboard. What are we sailing into?”

Kevin’s gaze drifted back to Jax, as if his report was meant for him alone, a secret shared in plain sight. He began to play a soft, aimless progression, the music underscoring his words. “The G-Government... has three primary enclaves on the c-coast. Boston’s a ruin. They hold the port infrastructure in Newport. That’s your l-likely landing point. The interior... it’s not like here. More factional. Less... less centralized control. The prion storms come off the ocean, so the coastal strips are volatile. The Alleghenies... there are rumors of larger, organized settlements there. Unaffiliated.” He took a breath, his fingers finding a minor chord. “Your Site Zero... Eden. Our maps p-place its likely location in what was West Virginia. Appalachia. It’s... a myth to most. A ghost. If it’s real, it’s buried deep. In every sense.”

Doc leaned forward, his glasses glinting. “The soil? The ecological data?”

“Contaminated, but p-patchy,” Kevin answered, his eyes still holding Jax’s across the smoky room. “Like a poison with a sweet tooth. Some valleys are dead. Others... reports of old-growth forests still standing. As if the virus skipped them.”

Marcus grunted, swirling his vodka. “Defenses?”

“The usual. Worse, in the bigger enclaves. They have... older tech. Functional vehicles. Limited air support. Drones.” Kevin’s strumming grew slightly discordant. “They’re p-paranoid. In-bred. More feudal than the Interim Government. Crossing from the coast to the mountains... it’ll be like walking through a hundred tiny, warring kingdoms. Each with their own price for a woman. Stray.”

The last sentence landed with a chill, cutting through the alcoholic haze. Leon’s hand stilled on Kayla’s back. Kevin seemed to realize what he’d said, his eyes widening slightly before he took another quick drink, his gaze finally breaking from Jax’s to stare at the deck.

Finn barely processed any of it. He had the most important mission in the world right now: trying to sip the vodka without his face betraying him. Just like Marcus. Don't even flinch.

It was a vile, beautiful fire. He preferred the sharp, clean taste of a kill. {{User}} was a warm, solid presence on the crate between him and where Matty had been sitting. Finn’s arm was draped along the bulkhead behind her, his fingers just brushing her shoulder, an almost-hug that shielded her from the room. He took another gulp, his throat seizing. He fought the convulsion, his eyes bulging, his nostrils flaring.

A soft, unmistakable giggle came from his other side.

Matty. The golden boy was watching him, a faint, tipsy smile on his face, his own drink (watered-down schnapps) held loosely. “It’s an acquired taste, Finn. You don’t have to conquer it in one night.”

Fuck you and your acquired tastes. Finn scowled, the expression ruined by his watering eyes. “I’m conquerin’ it just fine,” he rasped, voice tight.

Matty just shook his head, still smiling, and pushed himself up. “Right. I’ll get you some water before you choke on your own pride.” He gently ruffled {{user}}'s hair through her hood and ambled off towards the sealed water drum, leaving the space on {{user}}’s other side empty.

A slow, smug smile spread across Finn’s face. Finally. With the senior members deep in their tactical talk with Kevin, and Matty gone, the moment was his.

He shifted, turning his body more fully towards her, his arm now a definitive, protective curve around her back, blocking the view from most of the room. With his other hand, he fumbled in the inner pocket of his leather vest. His fingers closed over a small, precious bar. He pulled it out, the wrapper crinkling—a real, sealed chocolate bar, the kind with foil and paper.

He held it up between them, his blue eyes glittering with mischief and a touch of feral pride. “Found this in the Lieutenant’s footlocker,” he murmured, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble meant only for her. “Rich bastard shoulda locked his cabin better if he wanted to keep his sweets.” He carefully broke off a small square, the rich, dark scent of cocoa cutting through the smells of smoke, sweat, and vodka.

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against the edge of her hood. Gently, playfully, he touched the piece of chocolate to her lips. “Here. Better’n Marcus’s rocket fuel.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes, the dumb, confident flirtation softening into something more earnest, more vulnerable in the dim, smoky light. The guitar music, the low drone of conversation about distant, dangerous mountains, the warmth of the alcohol in his belly—it all coalesced into a strange, fragile bubble.

“Kinda like this,” he whispered, the words slurring just a little, not from the drink, but from the weight of the feeling. “You ‘n me. With... music. An’ no one tryin’ to eat us.” He swallowed. He smelled of mint and vodka, and his expressive eyes were unusually gentle. “Always wanted to kiss you in a place like this. Where the world ain’t... ain’t burnin’ down right this second. Just like in the old songs... A man kisses his girl 'cause she is his whole world."

The world wasn't supposed to move like this.

For Finn, the deck had always been a solid thing. The ground, even when treacherous, had a logic to it. This was chaos. The Sea-Sick Sow groaned like a dying beast, its metal ribs shrieking as a mountain of black water lifted it, held it suspended in howling darkness, and then dropped it into a yawning trough with a crash that vibrated through every tooth in Finn's head. Rain and salt spray hammered the decks, turning them into icy, slanting slides.

He’d been trying to get to her. The order had been to batten down, but an instinct deeper than command had pulled him from the relative safety below decks. He needed to see her, to know she was secure. He was fighting his way across the heaving main deck, knuckles white on a safety line, when he saw it.

A shadow in the chaos. Her form, small and hooded, being thrown by a violent lurch. There was a sickening crunch-thud as a metal cargo container, poorly secured, broke loose and slid, pinning her against a bulkhead before the ship rolled the other way and it clattered off. She didn't get up.

A sound tore from Finn’s throat, lost in the storm’s roar.

He was moving before the ship finished its roll, water up to his knees one second, scrambling up a tilting wall the next. He reached her. She was unconscious, blood already spreading through the fabric at her temple. The sight stopped his heart.

“No no no, c’mon, beauty, stay with me,” he babbled. He acted. He slid one arm under her knees, the other cradling her head and shoulders, and lifted her against his chest, turning his body to shield her from the punishing waves. He moved like a man possessed, using the violent rolls to propel himself forward, fighting towards the hatch that led below, her unconscious form a terrifyingly light burden.

The ship’s infirmary was a closet. A narrow, white-painted room that reeked of antiseptic and now, terror. It was already crowded. Doc was braced against a bolted-down cabinet, his hands desperately cradling a case of glass vials. Matty was beside him, his face pale but focused, securing rolls of bandages as the room tilted 30 degrees.

And there was Marcus, a deep, bleeding gash on his forearm, holding the puppy tightly, held shut by his own grim grip. “Took a souvenir from a loose pipe,” he grunted to no one in particular, his eyes sharpening at the sight of Finn’s cargo.

Finn barged in, water pouring off them both. “She’s out. Head’s bleedin’. Got crushed.”

Doc’s face went ashen. “Concussion. Possible intracranial. Lay her here, on the cot.”

The cot was a narrow, padded slab, bolted to the floor. Finn laid her down with a frantic gentleness, his hands hovering over her, afraid to touch, afraid to let go. He didn’t step back. He planted his boots wide, bracing against the ship’s convulsions, becoming a living wall between her and the lurching room, his body caging her in on the cot.

Matty was there instantly, pushing past Finn’s arm. His medic’s fingers went to her throat, checking her pulse, then gently probed the bloody matted hair at her temple. His touch was clinical, swift, but his face was ghastly white. “Pupils,” he muttered to Doc, his hands moving to carefully lift her eyelids.

A possessive snarl ripped from Finn’s chest. He couldn’t stand the intimacy of it, the necessity of it. “Just fix her, don’t... don’t paw at her.”

Matty didn’t even look up, his focus absolute. “I need to assess her level of consciousness, Finn. I need to see if there’s spinal concern. Get back and give me light.”

“I ain’t movin’,” Finn growled, leaning in closer, his panic morphing into a territorial rage. He’s all over her. While she can’t even tell him to stop. “You do your job with your eyes, not your hands.”

“Finn,” Leon’s voice cut through from the doorway, a warning rumble. “Stand down. Let him work.”

Finn was still in his space, breathing hard. “You heard me, Matthew. Do what you gotta do and be quick about it.”

Something in Matty snapped. The fear for her, the stress of the storm, the weeks of Finn’s jealous posturing, and now this blatant interference in a critical moment... it fused into a detonation.

He stood up so fast he nearly lost his footing to the ship’s roll. He turned on Finn, and for the first time, there was no hesitation, no softness. His face was a mask of incandescent rage.

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

The scream was raw, vibrating with a fury that dwarfed the storm. It silenced the room. Marcus stared. Doc flinched. Leon’s eyes closed in grim acceptance.

Matty’s hands, which had been so careful with her, were fists shaking at his sides. He stepped into Finn’s space, no longer the shy boy, but a man forged in this single, terrifying moment.

“You want to help?” Matty seethed, his voice a low, trembling wire. “Then be a wall. Be a weight. But be a silent one! Your jealousy is a luxury we don’t have! She is unconscious! She could have a brain bleed!”

He jabbed a trembling finger towards the pale, still form on the cot. Every word was a hammer blow. “You think this is about you?” His voice cracked, not with weakness, but with the sheer force of his emotion. “I am touching her because if I don’t, she might die. And I am looking at her, and I am terrified, because I love her!”

The word didn’t just hang in the air; it expanded, filling the metal room, drowning out the storm. It wasn’t a confession; it was a declaration of fact, as clinical and vital as a diagnosis.

“I love her enough to forget you’re even in this room!” Matty shouted, tears of fury and fear finally spilling over. “I love her enough to let my hands shake if they have to, as long as they do what she needs! So get out of my light, get out of my way, or so help me God, Finn, I will make you!”

The infirmary held its breath. The only sound was Matty’s ragged, furious breathing and the relentless scream of the storm. He didn't wait for a response. He turned his back, a final, dismissive act, and returned to her side.

The fire in Finn’s gut guttered out, doused by the cold, brutal truth of Matty’s words. He stared at Matty—not at the rival, but at the medic whose hands were shaking but whose will was iron—and then his gaze snapped to her unconscious form. Brain bleed. Might die. The words carved through him. For a second, the world stopped pitching. His own want, his claim, his stupid fucking dibs, shrank into insignificance next to the terrifying, simple need for her to live.

“Just... fix her,” Finn rasped, the command gone. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t yield ground. But he took one deliberate, heavy step to the side, his body no longer a barricade between Matty and the cot. He didn’t look at Matty again. His blue eyes were locked on her.

The memory was a stubborn splinter under Finn’s skin. Not the storm, not the terror—those were familiar ghosts. It was Matty’s voice, raw and shaking, slicing through the infirmary chaos: “I love her.” The words had the clean, terrible finality of a bone setting. Since then, Matty had just... carried on. Helping her walk as her leg healed, speaking to her in that soft, steady tone, being useful. He hadn’t pressed, hadn’t claimed. He’d just loved her, openly, and it made Finn’s own clutching want feel cheap and feral.

He’d become more careful with her. His touches were still constant—a guiding hand on her elbow, his bulk angled to shield her in corridors—but the clumsy, confident demands for kisses had quieted. The hunger was still there, a live wire in his chest, but Matty’s declaration had thrown a bucket of cold reality on it. You couldn’t just take something that profound. You had to... build up to it. Whatever that meant.

Days bled into one another on the monotonous sea. Currently, he was leaning against a rusted winch on a quieter section of deck, a stolen cigarette burning between his fingers. He hadn’t smoked in front of Jax since before the ship, since the fight with Matty in the hallway. But the tension was different now.

From a salvaged speaker wired to a battery, the tinny, haunting melody of Wave 143 drifted—a slow, aching song about forever and wedding bells. It made Finn’s stomach do a funny clench.

Jax, leaning nearby, took a drag of his own smoke. “Kid’s gotten bold,” Jax muttered, his eyes tracking a distant figure—Kevin—on the opposite deck. “Heard him callin’ her ‘sunshine’ earlier. ‘Atta girl’ when she managed the ladder.” Jax’s imitation was pitch-perfect, dripping with a cynical, mocking tenderness.

Finn didn’t laugh. He took a sharp pull on the cigarette, the smoke scratching his throat. Sunshine. Atta girl. They were... specific. Warm. His own go-to—‘beauty’—suddenly felt hollow, a generic compliment you’d give to a functioning weapon or a nice piece of fruit. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t capture the way her quiet focus could steady the chaos in his head, or how the sight of her sleeping made the walls of his cabin feel less like a cage. He wanted words with heft. With meaning. He just didn't have them.

Later, the sea had calmed to a gentle heave, the fury of the storm a memory etched in salt on the rails. The sky was doing a miracle, bleeding from bruised purple into layers of fiery orange and molten gold, painting the endless water in shimmering, impossible light.

He found her on the foredeck, a small, hooded figure against the vastness. The wind off the water had a bite. Without a word, Finn shrugged out of his worn leather jacket, the one lined with scavenged wool, and draped it heavily over her shoulders. He stayed in his thin, threadbare t-shirt, the cold immediately prickling his arms, but he didn’t feel it.

He moved to stand beside her, not crowding, just sharing the view. For a long time, he was silent, his jaw working as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, searching for a path through the thicket of feelings in his chest.

“World’s still here,” he finally said, his voice rough against the sigh of the waves. “Even after it tries to tear itself apart.” He glanced at her, then quickly back at the horizon, as if the sunset held the script he needed. “I ain’t... I ain’t good with words. Not like some people. Don’t know pretty phrases.”

He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers, his calloused fingers closing around the small, hard object he’d been working on for hours during his watch. It was cool from the sea air. He took her hand gently, turning it palm up.

“Made this,” he grunted, placing a ring in her palm.

It was crude. A band fashioned from a salvaged piece of steel cable, hammered and filed roughly into shape around a metal pipe until the ends met and were fused in the heat of a welder’s torch he’d sweet-talked from a crewman. It was uneven, dull grey, and solid.

“Steel’s strong,” he said, as if explaining. “Holds.” He took it back from her palm and, with a surprising, clumsy delicacy, slid it onto her finger. It was too big, but he carefully bent the band with his strong fingers, just enough so it wouldn’t fall off. The metal was cool against her skin.

He then leaned in, pressing a rough, lingering kiss to her temple, his lips warm against the chill. “That’s just a promise,” he mumbled against her skin. “The real one... women used to wear gold, right? Soft. Shiny. I’ll get you that. A real one.” He pulled back, his clear blue eyes fierce with earnest determination. “Won’t... won’t kill for it. Steal, maybe. Or find it in some old ruin. But I won’t take a life for it. Don’t want you lookin’ at it ‘n thinkin’ of that.” I want to be better. Softer. For you.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. This was the hardest fight he’d ever been in. The words were like stones he had to drag up from a deep, dry well.

“So...” He took her hand again, his thumb rubbing over the crude steel ring. His gaze was locked on their joined hands, unable to meet her eyes for this next part. “With this... an’ with the gold later... in this fucked-up world we got...” He took a shuddering breath. “Would you... be my wife? Be with me? Have... have a life with me?” The offer was stark, unadorned by poetry or pretty lies. It was a question of survival, of alliance, of building a fire in the long, cold dark—and he was offering her every splinter of wood he had.