I don’t pretend anything.
We go through the logistics first—phones, locks, routes, coverage—but it feels like going through the motions.Wren absorbs the information, nods, asks smart questions.She tracks every detail like a medic with a test coming up.
But there’s a shift under her skin.
A decision.
A line.
It doesn’t hit until Finn slides a pancake in front of her and says, “Round two.Tonight we—”
She cuts him off without meaning to.
“I’m going home tonight.”
Everything stops.
Kael freezes mid-sip.
Finn’s spatula clatters against a plate.
I go still, the kind of still that comes right before a fight.
Wren swallows.“I need a night in my own place.”
“No,” I say before I can stop myself.
She looks at me—steadily, directly.“Atlas.”
“No.”I repeat it slower, quieter, but even less negotiable.
Kael steps in carefully.“Wren.We talked about this.Being alone—”
“I’m not made of glass,” she says.“And I can’t spend the rest of my life...hiding.I need to go home.Just one night.”
Finn looks like someone just kicked him in the ribs.“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not proving anything,” she says.“I’m trying to live.”
Her voice cracks, just barely.She straightens before anyone can comment on it.
“I moved here for this job,” she continues.“For this team.For a life I want to build.My apartment is three blocks from the rink.It’s mine.I pay for it.I chose it.I sleep there.I shower there.I make coffee there.And I’m not letting Adrian Frost take that from me.”
The name hits the air and freezes it.
She rarely says it.
Never this calmly.
Kael sets his coffee down carefully.“Wren.We respect that.But we also can’t pretend we didn’t see what we saw in the footage.”
“I know,” she says softly.“I know what the footage looks like.”
“You know what he looks like,” I remind her.
She flinches.Barely.But enough.
I take a breath, fighting the instinct to move closer and to shut up at the same time.
