Wren goes quiet. It only lasts a second, but I notice it. The shift. The softness that sneaks in when he forgets to keep joking for a minute.
He laughs and leans into my side as we wander away from the trucks and toward the edge of the park, where it’s quieter. There’s a bench near the fountain, half hidden by festival decorations waiting to be hung tomorrow, and we claim it before anyone else can.
For a while, we just sit there. Wren’s shoulder is pressed to mine. The square is noisy a block away, but here it’s mostly the sound of the fountain and the occasional burst of laughter drifting over from the food trucks. He relaxes against me, loose and warm and happy in a way that feels a little unreal sometimes.
“Thanks for this,” he says after a minute.
I look down at him. “For buying you fries?”
“For taking me out.” He glances up, expression softer than usual. “For not expecting me to be perfect.”
My chest tightens a little. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I know.” Wren hooks his pinky with mine where our hands rest on the bench between us. “I wanted to.”
I lift our joined hands and kiss his knuckles before I can overthink it.
Wren goes pink. I pull him closer, settling my arm around his shoulders. He comes easily, resting against my side with a quietsigh that tells me he’s tired but content, not worn down to the bone the way he was a few weeks ago.
It’s such a small thing, a date after work. Food trucks, festival lights, Wren stealing my fries and pretending he isn’t charmed when I wipe sugar from his face.
But sitting there with him tucked against me, his hand tangled with mine, I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.
25
TALON
Wren and Wick help pack up the wagon we borrowed from the Boots family. It’s one of those oversized wooden things meant to cart around three kids and half a picnic, so it’s roomy enough to hold the absurd amount of pastries we’re hauling to the Summer Festival. I still don’t think it’s enough.
We fill the wagon with produce flats stacked with muffins, cookies, brownies, fruit bars, sweet rolls, and the cherry tarts we baked yesterday. On top of that, we’ve got two kitchen utility carts loaded with trays of treats that won’t fit in the wagon, plus baskets of pet pastries Wick insisted we needed because “you can’t have a festival booth and ignore the furry citizens of Hex.”
“Do you think we have enough?” Wren asks.
He stands with one hand wrapped around the wagon handle, nibbling his bottom lip as he surveys the stacks of pastries. The flowered button down he chose for the festival looks soft on him, pale green with little white blossoms scattered over it, and his hair is only half behaving in the humidity. He’s beautiful enough to make my chest ache, but there are shadows under his eyes.
He didn’t sleep. Again.
He smiled through breakfast and flirted while we loaded trays and stole a raspberry from the filling bowl when he thoughtI wasn’t looking, but he’s tired. I can see it in the way he leans a little heavier against the wagon than he means to. In the faint drag of his movements.
“I’m sure we do,” Wick says, though he looks just as nervous as Wren.
I’m not exactly calm either. If we don’t have enough, people might get upset. And if they get upset, they might stop coming to Wick’s. And if they stop coming to Wick’s, then Wick loses business, and I lose a job I love, and I don’t want to think about what that would do to any of us.
Wick claps his hands together hard enough to make us all jump. His tail swishes behind him in one agitated whip before he plasters on a bright smile.
“We can’t worry about it,” he says. “We have plenty. And if we run out, I have a backup plan.” He reaches into the pocket of his apron and produces a plastic pink envelope so stuffed with paper it’s barely sealed. “Coupons.”
Wren blinks. “How many coupons did you print?”
“A lot.”
“Knock knock,” Ethan says as he peeks his head through the back door. “How’s everything going? Anything I can help with?”
Wick brightens immediately and turns into Ethan’s space like he’s magnetic. His tail loops around Ethan’s waist and tugs him closer until they’re chest to chest. Ethan turns pink but doesn’t resist, smiling into Wick’s shoulder.
Wren and I both look away at the same time. Then we look at each other.
There’s something shy in Wren’s expression, which doesn’t happen often. We’re still figuring outus, but all I can think about is how easy it would be to close the distance and pull him against me. He’s close enough. One step and he’d be in my arms. My griffin perks up at the idea.
