I take the open seat beside her.
The moment I sit, she startles, then relaxes when she sees it’s me.That tiny little shift punches straight into my ribs.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice soft.“Didn’t mean to spook you.”
“You didn’t.”Her voice is quiet, the edges worn from a day too long and a night too intense.
“You okay?”I ask.
She nods once.A lie.A good one.The kind survivors craft so smoothly they don’t even realize they’re doing it anymore.
The bus jerks as we pull out of the parking lot.She grabs the seat in front of her, fingers trembling so lightly I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t living with my eyes glued to her lately.
I angle my knees toward her.“Wren.”
She exhales.The kind that sounds like surrender and exhaustion wrapped tight.“I don’t know,” she admits.“I thought tonight would feel...different.Safer.”
“You were amazing tonight,” I say.“You looked like you belonged out there with us.”
Her lip twitches—almost a smile.“I felt like it.For a while.”
“For a long while,” I correct gently.
The dim light catches her hair.She’s beautiful in this strange, quiet way.Not glam.Not dramatic.Just real.Unguarded in a way she doesn’t mean to be.And I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think the universe put her on this bus to ruin me.
Her eyes flick toward the aisle, then toward the spot in the stands she’d been staring at.Section 118 lives behind her gaze now.I hate that.I hate him for it.I hate myself a little for not being faster—looking sooner, noticing earlier, being where she needed me before she even needed me.
Not logical.
Doesn’t matter.
Feelings never ask permission.
“You saw someone,” I say.Not pushing.Just acknowledging.
She nods.Barely.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
She looks at me then.Really looks.“I don’t want to make it real.”
My chest squeezes.“Hey.”I shift closer—carefully, slowly—until our knees brush.“Just because you talk about something doesn’t give it power.It gives you clarity.And clarity keeps you safe.”
She presses her lips together.“I know.I just...I don’t want him to take anything else from me.”
I swallow hard.“He doesn’t get to.”
Her breath catches.
I lower my voice.“You know that, right?He doesn’t get seconds.Not anymore.”
She looks down at her hands.They’re still tucked into her sleeves, small and pale and tense.
I reach gently—slow enough she can pull away—and loosen one sleeve so her fingers peek out.
She lets me.
I wrap my hand around hers.Warm.Small.Trembling.
