Then softer than soft, I lean my cheek to her hair.
She’s warm.
She smells like vanilla and nerves and something delicate I want to protect with my life.
Her voice is muffled against me.“Today was really hard.”
“I know.”
“It’s stupid.”
“It’s not.”
“I didn’t want anyone to know.”
My chest aches.“You don’t have to hide everything.”
She presses closer — not drunk, not clinging — just...surrendering a little.
And God, it feels like the whole world holds its breath.
“You’re warm,” she murmurs.
“You’re freezing,” I counter gently.
She smiles against my shoulder — small, fragile, perfect.
I don’t know how long we sit like that.Long enough for her breathing to slow.Long enough for her hand to slide against mine like she’s searching for something to anchor her.
When her fingers weave through mine, I feel it everywhere.
“Wren,” I whisper, trying not to spook her.“You’re tired.”
She hums.“Just...don’t leave yet.”
“I won’t.”
But she’s swaying a little now, buzzed more than she realizes.Her head tilts and her lips brush the curve of my shoulder — light, accidental, but it shoots heat straight through me.
I swallow hard.
I need to get her home.
Gently, I slip an arm around her back.“Come on, sweetheart.”
She stiffens for half a second at the endearment — then melts, cheeks flushed.
“Let me take you home.”
“No, I don’t want—” She falters.“I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be.”
I help her off the stool, steadying her as she leans into me.Her fingers curl in my jacket, her breath warm on my neck.
Her voice is small.“Finn?”
“Yeah?”
