Outside, the sky has shifted—sun slipping low, tinting everything gold, like the universe wants to apologize for what’s coming.
Wren brushes a kiss against my jaw, soft as breath. Then she reaches for her leggings, her hoodie, her hair tie, moving with that quiet certainty that makes my chest ache.
She trusts me. God help me. She actually trusts me.
And for a moment, sitting there in the driver’s seat with her warmth still pressed into my skin, I let myself believe I can hold onto this.
Then my phone buzzes in the cupholder.
A name flashes on the screen.
Not anyone she knows.
A reminder of the version of me she hasn’t met yet.
Wren glances at the sound but doesn’t ask questions. Of course she doesn’t. She just offers me a small, sleepy smile as she pulls her hoodie over her head.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I lie.
Because I know what the next chapter of our lives looks like.
Classes. Teammates. Crowded hallways.
The bet shadowing every step she takes.
I grip the steering wheel until the leather bites into my palms.
I’ve never been more certain of someone. And never more terrified of what I’m about to lose.
“Let’s go home, Starboy,” she says.
I put the car in drive, knowing home is exactly where everything is about to get complicated.
24
LAUNCH SEQUENCE (KIERAN)
Feldman’s office is small—three of us crammed in front of his desk, a whiteboard covered in equations, a bookcase packed with binders.
Or maybe it just feels small because Wren’s knee keeps brushing mine under the table, and I’m trying very hard not to think about the last time her legs were near me.
Specifically, wrapped around my waist while she chanted my name like a prayer.
Focus. Meeting. Professor talking.
I try to fix my eyes on Feldman’s laptop screen, but every time Wren shifts, I catch the faint scent of her shampoo, and my brain derails completely.
“Overall?” Feldman leans back, fingertips steepled. “I’m impressed.”
Theo straightens. Wren’s posture doesn’t change, but something in the air brightens.
“You took a messy problem,” Feldman continues, tapping the printed plots, “and got from theory to prototype faster than most grad teams. Your stress-strain data matches simulations to within—what—three percent?”
“Three point one, on average,” Theo says automatically. “We can get closer with the revised mesh.”
He looks like he hasn’t slept much—dark circles, hair sticking up. But there’s quiet pride in his voice I haven’t heard before.
