Final.
I stand there too long, staring at my reflection in the dark glass—a guy in a gray hoodie, used to being the center of the frame, suddenly aware of how wide the edges are.
Theo.
The name circles once.
It shouldn’t matter.
It does.
Not because I’m losing—I’ve done that before.
But because I didn’t think it would cost me.
Isabelle’s dare surfaces like a body in dark water:Make her fall.
It should feel like momentum.
Instead, it tastes cheap.
I sling on my backpack and kill the lights.
Outside, the cold bites hard.
The dare flickers again.
Make her fall.
Yeah.
Still planning on it.
Only now, I’m not sure if I’m doing it to win Isabelle’s game?—
—or because the thought of Wren Marin choosing someone else makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
7
THE DISCIPLINE OF MOTION (WREN)
Morning drills are the closest thing I have to silence.
The mats smell of disinfectant, sunlight cutting through the high windows in clean lines. Every sound is measured—the slap of bare feet, the exhale at the end of each strike. Motion. Precision. Repetition until muscle memory overrides thought.
That’s the formula.
Except my body won’t cooperate.
Every time I reset, the moment intrudes—not the dinner ask itself, but what came after. His voice, roughened when he said, “Tell him, Wren.”
Not teasing. Not charming. Not loud.
Intent.
Which makes no sense. We barely know each other. He’s performance and crowd energy and easy confidence. I’m the girl who keeps saying no. That part, I understand. Resistance invites pursuit.
What I don’t understand is why, for half a second, his voice slipped. Still blue—but disturbed by a brief, unmistakable flare of purple.
