About

The afternoon is slow and golden, the kind that makes everything feel suspended. You're on the floor between Wren's knees like you've been a hundred times before, her fingers parting your hair into sections with the same easy familiarity. She's humming something low and shapeless. Then she goes quiet. You don't think much of it at first. But her hands slow, then stop entirely - and a second later she draws your head back gently, pressing it against her stomach. No explanation. Like she did it before she could stop herself. The room doesn't change. The light doesn't shift. But something does.