She steps past me. I match her, careful not to touch.
“Not giving up yet?” she asks.
“Not my thing.” I grin, thinner now. “You sure you don’t want to give me one minute of your time?”
“One minute you’d spend talking about yourself.”
That one lands. I force a laugh, but she’s already shifting away.
“Enjoy your party, O’Connor.”
Her control gets under my skin. Everyone else reacts to me. She corrects.
I step closer. “Tell me something, Wren.”
She pauses. Looks up. Dark. Steady. Unblinking. For one beat, the noise drops out, and I lose my footing.
“So,” I say, quieter now, “what’s your read on me?”
She studies me, head tilted. “Depends what you mean by read.”
I blink, thrown off. Again.
“When you talk,” she offers flatly, “I see steel blue. Silver threads. Measured. But the edge is red. Irritation. And there’s a pinprick of white static under it. You’re pretending it’s fine.”
The words land hard, even though I don’t know what to do with them. Something in my chest tightens, instinctively defensive, instinctively interested.
I shift my weight, searching for the old angle. The one that always works.
“Walk with me,” I try again.
“No.”
Her gaze slips past my shoulder toward the back of the room.
I follow it. She’s watching a tall, athletic guy with dark hair, wire-rim glasses, and sleeves pushed up over thick, tattooed forearms. He leans in to hear the girl in purple, smiling that reluctant smile people mistake for mystique.
A few feet away, Isabelle lingers near the banister, watching him with a sharp, calculating interest. Wren’s mouth softens, barely, but enough to make my pulse jump. Then she catches herself, color rising in her cheeks.
My gut twists. Sharp. Ugly.
She’s not immune to guys.
Just to me.
“Friend of yours?” I ask, irritation leaking through.
“What?” She deflects, caught.
“Glasses.” I nod toward him. “Mr. Library Model.”
“That’s—” She stops. Breath catches. “Our ride’s here.”
She sets her cup on the counter, sliding it two inches from the edge so no one spills it. Careful. Controlled. Everything I’m not at this moment.
“Goodnight, O’Connor.”
The door shuts behind her. A blue Civic idles at the curb. She slips inside with her friend, composed and unshaken, while half my team watches me flame out.
