I pick up my fork. “Thanks, Wren.”
The way her name feels in my mouth is… noticeable. She pauses like she heard it too, then turns and heads for another table.
I eat in silence, but my attention keeps drifting. Every time the door opens and a blast of cold air sweeps in, Wren’s shoulders tense. Every loud laugh makes her flinch just a little.
It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t see it.
I do.
Because I’ve spent most of my life watching for cracks. For weakness. For the moment something breaks.
And there’s a crack running straight through that girl, no matter how hard she works to hide it.
When I finish, I slide cash onto the counter. More than the meal costs. I always tip heavy. Mae pretends not to notice, and Wren pretends it surprises her every time.
She comes to clear my plate, fingers brushing the bills. Her eyes flick up to mine.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I answer.
She studies my face like she’s trying to decide if there’s a catch. When she doesn’t find one, she nods once.
“Thank you,” she says, and this time it sounds like she means more than just the tip.
I pull on my jacket and stand. The diner is louder now, filled with morning chatter and clinking dishes. Wren moves through it like she’s finding her rhythm, carving out a place for herself in the noise.
I head for the door, then pause with my hand on the handle.
She’s at the counter with Mae, arguing softly about something that makes them both smile. The sight settles in my chest in a way I don’t have a name for.
Maybe it’s just this town. The way it gathers people in and holds them.
Or maybe it’s her.
The bell jingles as I step outside. Cold air bites at my lungs, sharp and clean. I climb into my truck and sit there for a moment, engine idling.
Up the mountain, my house waits. Quiet. Empty. Exactly the way I left it.
But my mind is still inside that warm diner, tracking the sound of a soft voice and the careful steps of a girl who looks like she’s learning how to breathe again.
I shift into gear and pull onto the road, the mountains rising around me like old, steady guardians.
Chapter Three
WREN
The bellover the diner door jingles and I don’t look up right away because my hands are full and Mae is calling my name from the kitchen and the coffee pot is heavier than it looks when it’s this full.
“Coming,” I call, weaving between tables. My braid slides over my shoulder, brushing my chest, and I tuck it back without thinking. The diner is warm and loud and alive in that comforting way I’m starting to crave. Plates clatter. Someone laughs too hard at a joke I missed. The Valentine decorations sway every time the door opens, little paper hearts dancing in the air.
It’s been a month. A whole month of early mornings and tired feet and falling into the narrow bed upstairs with the hum of the diner below me. A month of learning which regulars like extra bacon and which ones pretend they don’t want dessert until I set it in front of them anyway. A month of breathing without feeling like I’m choking on it.
Mae slides a plate onto my tray. “Table three, sweetheart.”
“Got it.”
I turn toward the counter and that’s when I see him.
