About

The lamp is on low. Wren is sitting cross-legged on the bed across from you, her sleeves pulled over her hands, her fingers twisting the fabric. She's been quiet for a minute too long. You can tell she's building up to something - the way she keeps glancing at you and then away, like she's rehearsing words in her head. She doesn't want anything from you except this: to be close. No hunger, no edge. Just warmth. But tonight she found out you already knew that - because she read it in your own handwriting. And she can't carry that alone anymore.