“Shut up.”
“Couch?” Finn says. “That’s devotion.”
“We’re friends,” I snap. “That’s it.”
Liam steps closer, voice low. “Then why haven’t you looked away from her once in the past fifteen minutes?”
For a second, I almost tell him everything—the bet, Isabelle, how this started.
Instead, I shake my head. “There’s no story.”
“Bullshit,” Dmitri says easily. “You look at her like she hung the moon.”
“Maybe she did,” I mutter, grabbing a beer.
Laughter drifts down the stairs—Wren’s mixed with Sophie’s and Eden’s. It settles heavy in my chest.
“She seems like a good girl,” Liam says, quieter now. “Just…be decent to her.”
“I will.”
Another lie.
Dinner issheet-pan salmon with roasted vegetables and citrus. The table fills quickly—laughter, overlapping conversations, glasses clinking. Wren sits between Sophie and Erin, shoulders loosening as the wine flows and the questions stay easy.
At some point, she leans toward the stone fireplace, watching the flames.
“This fire sounds gold,” she murmurs.
The table stills just a fraction.
“Gold?” Sophie asks, curious.
“Wood fires ring warm and bright,” Wren says. “Gas fires sound thin. Silver. Draft gives it a brass edge.”
Sophie’s eyes light. “That’s synesthesia, right? Whendid you realize other people didn’t experience it like you do?”
“Second grade.” Wren nods. “I told my teacher the school bell sounded brown. She said bells don’t have colors. So I stopped mentioning it.”
A beat.
“My mom understood,” she adds. “She said music has color if you listen long enough. When she played the flute, the house glowed violet. Not every note—just her.”
Silence settles, careful and attentive.
“She practiced constantly,” Wren continues. “Same passage, over and over, until it was perfect.”
“She was a flutist?” Erin asks.
Wren nods. “Transylvania State Philharmonic. Later the New Jersey Symphony.” A flicker of surprise crosses a few faces, but no one interrupts. “After my parents died, I moved in with my aunt and uncle. My aunt thought synesthesia was something I should grow out of.”
Dmitri’s voice is low. “Both parents?”
“Car accident,” Wren says evenly. “FDR. Wrong-way driver.”
The table goes quiet.
“Do you play?” I ask, already regretting it.
