She thinks tonight is hers.
She thinks she’s brave.
Footsteps pad softly.
A light clicks off.
The door creaks.
She emerges in a towel, hair dripping down her shoulders, skin flushed from heat, breath soft.
She freezes when she sees me.
Oh.
There it is.
That look.
That beautiful, silent, breaking look she used to give me whenever I’d tell her to stop, to behave, to remember who she belonged to.
Fear.
Recognition.
Memory.
And under it all—
Something else.
Something she doesn’t want to admit.
“Hello, Wren,” I say softly.
Her breath catches.
She doesn’t scream.
She doesn’t bolt for the door.
She doesn’t reach for her phone.
She stands there — trembling, wrapped in cheap cotton, looking at me like she’s seeing a ghost she hoped was buried.
A ghost who never stays dead.
“You look good,” I murmur.“Boston suits you.”
She grips the edge of the towel tighter.“Get out.”
I tilt my head.“You’re home.”
Her lower lip trembles.“Adrian, get out.”
“You told them you wanted to be alone tonight.”I let a small smile curve my mouth.“I’m giving you that.”
She shakes her head, small and terrified and trying not to show it.“I’m calling Kael.”
