25. Chapter 25
Jace
"Love."
The word hangs in the air, impossibly fragile yet powerful enough to stop time. My brain processes it in fragments—the slight rasp in her voice, the way her lips formed the shape, the vulnerability in her eyes as she realizes what she's done.
Wren spoke. After twenty months of silence, she found her voice—and the first word she chose was "love."
I can't move. Can't breathe. My fingers tap rhythmically against my thigh—three, two, three—as I try to process the overwhelming surge of emotion. The dish towel dangles forgotten from my other hand.
Theo recovers first, stepping carefully around the shattered plate to reach her. "You spoke," he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Wren, you actually spoke."
She nods, her hand at her throat, looking as stunned as we feel. Her eyes find mine over Theo's shoulder, questioning, uncertain.
I force myself to move, to cross the distance between us. My body feels strange, disconnected, like I'm floating rather than walking. Too many sensations bombard me at once—the lingering smell of burnt chicken, the sharp sound of my shoes against the floor tiles, the rapid beating of my own heart.
"Say it again?" I ask, the words barely audible. "Please?"
She swallows, hesitates. Then, so softly I have to strain to hear: "Love."
Something breaks open inside me—a dam I didn't know was holding back so much emotion. I pull her into my arms, burying my face in her pink hair, breathing in the scent that's become as familiar to me as my own. Theo's arms wrap around us both, creating a circle of warmth and safety.
"I'm so proud of you," I whisper against her temple. "So incredibly proud."
We stand like that for a long moment, the three of us tangled together in the kitchen, surrounded by broken ceramic and burnt food and so much love I can barely contain it. When we finally separate, Wren's eyes are bright with unshed tears, her smile tremulous but real.
"Was that what happened in therapy today?" Theo asks, his hand still resting on the small of her back.
She nods, then signs, "I practiced a different word there. 'Home.' This one just... came out."
"It's perfect," I tell her, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "It's absolutely perfect."
We move to the living room, the takeout temporarily forgotten.
Wren sits between us on the couch, her hands animated as she signs about her breakthrough with Dr. Levine.
I watch her fingers move with their familiar grace, mesmerized as always by the elegance of her communication.
Even now, with that single precious word recovered, signing remains her primary language—the bridge that connected us long before I heard her voice.
"Dr. Levine thinks I might recover more words with practice," she signs. "Slowly. No pressure."
"No pressure," I agree, reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The texture of it against my fingertips grounds me, helps me focus through the emotional overload. "Whatever pace works for you."
"We've got all the time in the world," Theo adds, squeezing her knee gently. "Though I've got to say, your timing is impeccable. Dropping the L-bomb right when Jace burns dinner? Classic misdirection."
She laughs softly, her shoulders shaking, and just like that, the intensity of the moment shifts into something lighter, more manageable.
I shoot Theo a grateful look over her head.
He's always been better at this than me—at diffusing emotion with humor, at making space for breathing when things get too heavy.
We eventually return to the kitchen, cleaning up the broken plate and serving the takeout Theo brought. The conversation flows easily around Wren's breakthrough, no one pushing her to speak again, just celebrating the milestone for what it is.
Later, after we've eaten and Theo has commandeered the shower, I find Wren standing by the window, looking out at the street deep in thought.
I wrap my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
She leans back into me, her hands coming up to cover mine where they rest on her stomach.
"I've been meaning to ask you something," I say quietly, my lips close to her ear. "There is a launch party for the Wasteland Chronicles expansion next Friday."
She turns in my arms, her expression curious.
"I want you there," I continue, the words coming faster now that I've started. "With us. With me."
She tilts her head, a question in her eyes.
"It's a big deal," I explain, my fingers unconsciously tapping against her hip—three, two, three. "But this expansion wouldn't exist without you."
Her eyebrows lift in surprise.
"It was your idea," I remind her. "Well, Vanta's idea.
Remember that cam shoot? The one where we first..
. discovered each other?" I look at Wren, watching her nod.
"Seeing the game environment recreated physically like that—it gave me an idea.
A fully immersive VR experience. Not just enhanced graphics or new missions, but a complete sensory world. "
I've been working on it obsessively for weeks, stealing hours late at night after Wren falls asleep, or early in the morning before she wakes. The guilt of those stolen hours weighs on me but the drive to create something worthy of what she inspired has been overwhelming.
She smiles, her hands moving to sign, "I'm honored. Of course I'll be there."
Relief washes through me. "It'll be very public," I warn her. "Press, influencers, industry people. I know that's not usually your scene."
"I'll manage," she signs. "With both of you there."
I kiss her then, overwhelmed by her willingness to step into my world, to face her fears for my sake. When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers, gathering courage for what I need to say next.
"I'm sorry I've been working so much," I murmur. "These last few weeks, with the final push for the launch... I know I've been distracted."
She shakes her head, her hands rising between us. "You've still been here," she signs. "Every night. Every morning. You've never left me alone."
"Not physically," I acknowledge. "But mentally... sometimes I'm too deep in the code, even when I'm sitting right beside you."
The expansion has consumed so much of my focus, especially with the launch date looming. My mind lost in virtual worlds instead of anchored to the miracle of her presence.
"I understand ambition," she signs, her expression serious. "I understand passion for your work. Don't apologize for that."
"Still," I insist, needing her to know how deeply I feel this. "You deserve better. After the launch, things will calm down. I'll be more present."
She smiles, touching my face with gentle fingers. "I'm proud of you," she signs. "What you've created. How hard you work."
The simple validation eases something tight in my chest. She understands. Of course she does. Wren has always seen me more clearly than anyone else—even before she knew who I was, when I was just ObsidianWolf to her Silence.
I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair, allowing myself a moment of pure gratitude for her presence in my life. Weeks ago, I couldn't have imagined this—having her in my arms, knowing all of her secrets, being trusted with her protection and her heart.
The thought of protection brings me back to reality with a sharp jolt.
We haven't told her about the notes that still appear, the small "gifts" Theo and I intercept before she can see them.
We've been careful to maintain the illusion of safety, to let her believe the stalker has been deterred by our presence and the enhanced security.
But the truth is, they're still out there. Still watching. Still leaving their twisted tokens of obsession.
Yesterday it was a small box containing expensive chocolates. A few days before, a child's music box that played "You Are My Sunshine" when opened. Last week, a perfectly preserved black lilly.
Each item more disturbing than the last. Each message more personal, more intimate.
Theo and I have cataloged them all and photographed them. We've installed cameras at every possible entry point, added motion sensors, upgraded the locks twice. The apartment is a fortress now—but somehow, the notes still appear, usually at the door, sometimes on the balcony.
The cameras have captured only glimpses—a hooded figure, face always turned away from the lens, movements quick and practiced.
Professional, almost. Theo's security contact has reviewed the footage and says whoever it is knows exactly where the cameras are, knows precisely how to minimize their exposure.
It's maddening. Terrifying. And we've kept it all from Wren, not wanting to shatter the sense of safety she's finally reclaimed.
I tighten my arms around her, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to keep her close, to physically shield her from the threat we can't seem to eliminate.
"What is it?" she signs, sensing the change in my mood.
I force a smile, pushing the dark thoughts away. "Nothing," I lie. "Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you. To have this."
She studies my face, clearly not entirely convinced, but doesn't press the issue. Instead, she rises on tiptoes to kiss me again, her lips soft against mine.
"Shower's free," Theo announces, entering the living room with a towel slung low on his hips, his hair still damp. "Though I used all the hot water, so good luck with that."
Wren turns to shoot him an exasperated look, and just like that, the moment of darkness passes.
I watch as Wren moves toward Theo, playfully smacking his arm before signing something too quick for me to catch. The familiarity between them makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
After Wren disappears into the bathroom, Theo's expression changes instantly.
"Anything new?" he asks, voice low as he pulls on a t-shirt.