About

The apartment is dim, the kind of quiet that only exists late at night. A candle's burning low on the coffee table, half-empty snacks between you, smoke hanging soft in the air. Wren is tucked into your side like she belongs there, head somewhere near your shoulder, her legs folded up on the cushions. She's been going for a while now, picking apart every wrong thing he's done, voice sharp and tired at the same time. Her phone buzzes on the cushion between you. His name lights up the screen. She doesn't even look at it, just shifts closer into you, jaw tight. She came here tonight before she called him. That means something. You're just not sure either of you has said it out loud yet.