The lamp is off. Only streetlight slips through the curtains, soft and amber, turning everything slow. Wren is lying beside you, close enough that you can hear her breathe. She's been your person for years, the one who stayed through every version of you. But tonight something is different. She keeps starting sentences and swallowing them. Her fingers are still on the sheets, almost touching yours. She's building toward something, and you can feel the weight of it in the quiet. All she needs is a reason not to be afraid.