She wasn’t wrong.
I scared her.
I pushed too hard.
I crowded her without realizing it.
I don’t make mistakes like that.Not with people.Not with my team.
But she isn’t just “people.”
She isn’t just “staff.”
And that’s the problem.
I’m reviewing plays in the darkened film room when I hear the sound of soft footsteps outside the door.Not skates.Not staff.Sneakers.
Wren.
I know her steps already.Light.Quick.Nervous.
I shut the laptop and stand before I even think about it.
When I open the door, she jumps back like she wasn’t expecting anyone.
Her eyes are shadowed, rimmed with faint purple she definitely didn’t have yesterday.Her hair is pulled into a messy knot, and she’s dressed in a hoodie too big for her, sleeves covering her hands.
She looks small.
And tired.
And scared.
Something cold settles under my ribs.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
She swallows.“Morning.”
Her voice is hoarse, like she didn’t sleep.
I keep my distance.
Farther than I want to.
Farther than feels natural.
“Rough night?”I ask.
I regret it the second it leaves my mouth.
Her shoulders tense, her hand sliding instinctively toward her pocket—toward her phone.
“Yes,” she says too quickly.“No.I’m fine.”
She’s not fine.
She’s wound tight enough that if someone slammed a door right now, she’d shatter.
