Ghosts of the past

This is written in my new style away from 1st person pov more to a 3rd person PoV. I hope it's okay and I know it took a little time but I'm still trying to catch up on the season season of the teen wolf. So please bear with me. And lastly I hope you like the chapter and if you do, let me know.

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"I killed my dad."

The words left Finn's mouth, heavy and unfamiliar, like a truth he'd never meant to speak aloud. They hung in the air, weighty and irreversible. He'd said them to console her—or was it to free himself? He wasn't sure.

Malia froze, her back to him, the stillness in her shoulders betraying her shock. When she finally turned to face him, her expression was unreadable, but her wide eyes said enough.

"What are you saying?" she whispered, her voice trembling. She wanted to deny it, to tell him it wasn't true. But the look in his eyes left no room for doubt.

Finn sighed and raked a hand over his neck. "I killed him."

"I… I don't understand."

"I'm not trying to compare what happened to us or make this about me," he said quickly, his voice tight. He glanced away, ashamed, as if his words alone carried a weight she shouldn't have to bear.

Malia stepped closer, reaching for him. Her fingertips brushed his cheek. "You don't have to tell me—"

He caught her hand in his and looked into her eyes, his grip firm but trembling. "I know I don't. But you need to know. I need you to know."

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They sat together on a creaky bench, the cool breeze wrapped around them. Finn's fingers were laced tightly, knuckles pale, as he stared at the ground. Malia didn't press him. She waited.

He finally exhaled and began.

"My dad was my hero," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Growing up, I thought he could do anything. He was kind. Patient. He wasn't just my dad—he was everyone's favorite person. The guy who'd walk into a room and make everyone feel better just by being there. I wanted to be like him someday." He paused, his throat bobbing with the effort to swallow his emotion. "We were happy—me, my mom, him. But that all changed after Gramps died."

Malia shifted slightly, her knee brushing his, but still, she said nothing.

"Gramps left his company to my dad. And… Dad wasn't made for it. He was an artist—a painter. Business wasn't his thing, but suddenly, it was all on him. The stress crushed him. The company started losing money, and no matter what he did, it kept sinking. He… he started sinking with it."

Finn let out a shuddering breath. "My mom saw it first, how he was changing. She quit her job to help him, but I think it was already too late. He started snapping at her over little things. The fights started small, but they kept building. I thought it was just stress—something they'd get past. I mean, don't all parents argue sometimes?"

He stopped, his jaw clenching. The memories were coming faster now, and Malia's quiet presence anchored him just enough to keep going.

"I didn't realize it at the time, but the fights were affecting me, too. My grades tanked. I failed my midterms, and the school benched me from the football team. When my mom found out, she snapped. That was the day everything fell apart."

His voice cracked, and Malia placed a hand on his, steadying him.

"That night, I woke up to a loud crash. It sounded like a vase breaking or something. I got out of bed, and then I heard it—the sound of thunder, but it wasn't thunder. It was coming from downstairs. I was scared, but I went to see what was happening.

"I stood at the edge of the hallway, looking into the living room, and I saw him." His voice wavered. "My dad was… hitting her. My mom. She was on the floor, bleeding from her head, bruises all over her arms. And she looked up and saw me. Her eyes… God, her eyes." He shuddered.

"What did you do?" Malia asked softly, her voice barely audible.

"I froze." Finn's voice was hollow. "I couldn't move. My dad saw me standing there and dropped the belt. His face changed—like he knew what he'd done, but it didn't stop him. My mom managed to scream, 'Run!' So I ran. I ran to my room."

He paused, rubbing his palms over his face as if trying to wipe the memory away.

"My dad chased me. I could hear him pounding up the stairs, yelling, 'Get back here, boy!' He grabbed my leg at the railing, but I kicked him. Hard. I managed to get to my room, locked the door, and shoved my dresser against it. I called 911, but he was already trying to break the door down."

Malia's hand tightened on his.

"He was like a madman," Finn continued. "He kept pounding and screaming at me. I didn't know what to do. Then, through the crack in the door, I saw her. My mom."

"She came up?"

"She had a fire poker. She swung it at him. Hard. It caught him in the head, and he started bleeding. He turned on her, screaming, and pounced on her. She swung again, but her arm was messed up—she couldn't fight him off. He pinned her down and started choking her." Finn's voice broke, his chest heaving with the effort to speak.

Malia whispered, "What did you do?"

"I didn't freeze this time," he said, his voice firm. "I broke the door down. I threw myself at him, kicked him as hard as I could. He stumbled and fell down the stairs. By the time I got to my mom, he wasn't moving anymore. His head… His head was split open." Finn's hands shook. "And he looked at me, in his last moments, and said, 'I'm sorry, my boy.'"

Malia didn't say anything. She just pulled him close, her arms wrapping around him as if she could shield him from the memory.

"For a long time," Finn said against her shoulder, his voice hoarse, "I blamed him. For what he did to her. For what he made me do. But now… I don't know. Was it him? Or was it the blood in our family that broke him?"

Malia didn't let go. She just held him, letting him know he wasn't alone. And in a strange way, Finn realized, by facing her own ghosts, Malia had helped him face his.

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They stayed like that for a while. Later, Malia paid her respects to her father at the cemetery, Finn at her side. They didn't speak much. They didn't need to.

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The full moon hung high in the sky, bathing the world in silver light. For many, this was a night of pain, but for Finn and Malia, it was something else. Something quieter.

When Finn got home, his phone buzzed with missed calls from Derek and Stiles. He ignored them, turning the phone face-down on his desk. He wasn't in the mood to deal with their problems tonight. Tonight, he needed peace.

As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he heard his door creak open. He froze, thinking it might be his mom checking on him, but then a familiar voice broke the silence.

"Are you asleep?"

He turned his head and saw Malia standing there in a white tank top and shorts.

"No," he said, sitting up. "What's wrong?"

"I can't sleep," she admitted, stepping inside.

"Me neither."

She hesitated, fidgeting slightly. "Can I stay with you? Just for tonight?"

"Yeah," Finn said without hesitation, sliding over to make room.

Malia lay down beside him, shifting until their shoulders touched. "It's kind of small," she murmured after a moment.

Finn glanced at her and let out a soft hum of agreement. She turned slightly, resting her head against his shoulder, her hand brushing his arm. He didn't move at first, unsure of what to do, but when she let out a quiet sigh and nestled closer, he slowly draped his arm around her.

They stayed like that for a while, the room silent except for their soft, even breaths. Finn stared at the ceiling, his thoughts strangely still.

"I didn't think I'd sleep tonight," he said after a long pause. The words weren't meant for her, but she heard them anyway.

Malia's fingers curled around the edge of his sleeve. She didn't say anything, but the warmth of her hand against his arm was enough.

For the first time in a long time, the silence didn't feel heavy.