22. Wren
WREN
I enter the land of the living slowly, reluctantly, with swollen, crusted eyes and a residual headache—low and dull, like a bruise pressing against the inside of my skull. Not quite a hangover, but close. The emotional equivalent of one.
There’s a heaviness in my chest, in my limbs. The kind that comes after a long, hard cry. After you’ve let something out that’s been festering for years. It’s a catharsis of sorts. The shedding of a weight you hadn’t even known you were carrying.
I must have cried myself to sleep eventually, and I have no idea how long I’ve been out.
Shifting slightly on the sofa, the blanket tucked around me rustles.
Someone must have pulled it over me after I fell asleep.
Inhaling, it smells of laundry detergent, fabric softener, and something more masculine. Something distinctly them.
Cautiously, bracing against the world beyond my warm cocoon, I peel open my eyes.
I’m still on the old, worn couch in their house, although now I’m alone.
Rolling onto my back, I stare at the daylight that dances across the ceiling as I sift through the fog in my head.
Last night replays behind my eyes like a montage.
I should feel embarrassed, I think. For breaking down. For sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. For crumbling in front of three boys I once swore to never trust. And yet, if anything, the shame is finally gone.
I sink further into the sofa cushions, pulling the blanket tight beneath my chin as I allow myself to float in the quiet, in the strange sense of rightness curling low in my stomach.
Perhaps I’m foolish for believing these men I don’t truly know.
For taking them at their word, but I do believe them.
If I’m being honest, I haven’t really thought they were guilty in a while.
I clung to the idea of their guilt because the alternative—the unknown—was too terrifying to face.
If not them…then who?
But last night changed something. No more running. No more hiding. I’m not afraid of them anymore. I’m not afraid with them.
I exhale, a long, slow breath that feels like shedding old skin. For the first time in years, I actually slept. Not the restless, haunted kind of sleep I’ve grown accustomed to. But deep, healing sleep.
Soft sounds coming from the kitchen pull me into the here and now.
I register the low murmur of voices, the soft clatter of utensils, and the scrape of a cabinet door as it is pulled open.
I might be alone in here, but they haven’t entirely abandoned me.
There’s something about knowing they are nearby.
That if I called out, they’d come running.
I can’t remember the last time I had that.
Probably when I was a young child, and the nanny would settle me after a nightmare.
The sound of life nearby is soon followed by the smell of cooking. Well, more like the acrid stench of burning food. Throwing off the blanket and stretching out my stiff muscles as I stand, I pad across the hardwood floors, following the scent toward the kitchen.
Lucian stands at the stove, glaring at a pan like it personally offended him. Given his hard expression, I’m half expecting him to chuck it across the room at any moment.
Silas is seated at the kitchen table, a laptop open in front of him.
Neither of them notices me initially, and I take the opportunity to observe them as Lucian mutters, “I don’t think they are supposed to look like that.
” Grabbing the skillet’s handle, he carries it over to where Silas is sitting. “Are they supposed to look like that?”
Based on the smell alone, I’m guessing no.
Silas takes one look in the pan and his nose scrunches. He shakes his head.
Sighing, Lucian returns to the stove, staring at the burnt concoction like it’s a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve.
“You’re supposed to flip them before they become lumps of charcoal,” Ronan says, making me jump as he appears behind me with a brown paper bag and coffee tray in hand. So entranced watching Lucian and Silas, I hadn’t even heard the front door open or him approaching.
“How am I supposed to know when that is? I can’t see the underside when it’s in the pan,” Lucian grouses, not looking up.
“This thing should be made of glass so I can see the bottom of the pancake.” He shoves the skillet away with a snarl.
“Please tell me you brought food—Little Moth!” he exclaims, looking up.
His whole face lights up, his frustration from a moment ago wiped clean when he notices me.
Getting up from his chair, Silas silently approaches.
“Morning,” Ronan murmurs in my ear as he pushes something into my hand. “Here.”
“You retrieved my car?” I blurt in surprise, staring at the keys resting in my palm.
“Picked it up this morning.” He says it casually, like it’s no big deal. No ceremony. No need for recognition. Like it’s second nature to him to look after those in his life.
Lifting my head, I meet his eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words catching at the edges.
He smiles, and something in my chest stutters.
It’s nothing like the one he wears in public.
There’s no polish to it. No performance.
Just genuine warmth. Staring into his face, feeling the heat of his gaze, I find myself thinking that I like this raw version of him.
This version feels as though it’s solely meant for me.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, moving past me to set the bag and coffee tray on the table.
“Like I cried for three hours and passed out on your couch.” I scrunch my nose. “Sorry about that.”
Lucian makes a scoffing noise like my apology offends him.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Ronan insists, expression genuine as he glances my way before beginning to unpack the bag. The smell of food—this time not incinerated—permeates the air.
Slipping his hand into mine, Silas leads me toward the table and pulls out the chair beside the one he was occupying before encouraging me to sit.
“I brought breakfast,” Ronan announces, likely for my benefit. “Since whatever that was supposed to be was never going to pan out.” He gestures toward the blackened skillet, and Silas guffaws quietly.
“Hey!” Lucian protests. “The recipe said to flip them when they were done. How am I supposed to know when they are done?!”
“You look for the bubbles,” Ronan answers, like he’s trying to explain it to a two-year-old.
“Bubbles? What bubbles? There were no bubbles.”
Silas pushes his notebook toward me as the two of them bicker back and forth, and I chuckle at what he’s written.
Might have helped if he’d kept an eye on the food instead of leaving it on the stove for the past half hour while he dicked about on his phone.
“I’ve got bacon and egg sandwiches, if that’s good with you, Wren?” Ronan asks, setting a plate and sandwich in front of me.
“If they are as good as they smell, then that’s perfect.”
They’re even better, Silas writes.
“Did you get hash browns too?” Lucian asks, already rummaging through the bag.
“Like I’d forget the hash browns and have you put peppermint syrup in my coffee again.
” Ronan rolls his eyes, flashing me a wry grin as he passes out the coffees, and the other two grab their own food and get situated at the table.
I don’t even need to smell my coffee to know it’s my usual order.
They all seem to know what that is by now.
Lucian tears open the paper around his sandwich and takes a bite, moaning as he chews. “Messy, but far superior to my attempt at breakfast.”
“Yeah, whatever your charcoal discs were supposed to be, we’d all have cracked a tooth on them,” Ronan corrects without looking up.
“They were pancakes,” Lucian grouses.
“Were they, though?” I murmur, and Silas snorts silently, shoulders shaking as he lifts his sandwich to his mouth, eating much more cordially than Lucian, who looks like a starved savage with grease running down his chin.
Lucian glares at us both, but there’s no heat to it. “Okay, traitors. This is how it’s gonna be, huh? I slaved over that stove all morning, and for what? This heinous mocking?”
Let’s be honest. You mixed some premade batter, dumped it into the pan, and proceeded to doom scroll until smoke was billowing.
“Well.” Lucian drags out the word. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“If you could never attempt that again, I think we’d all be appreciative,” Ronan retorts with a smirk, earning a flick of hash brown to the face from Lucian.
A soft laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it, and three sets of eyes snap to mine immediately.
Something flickers behind Ronan’s eyes, a warmth that lingers as he watches me.
Lucian leans his elbow on the table, chin in his hand, grin lazy and satisfied.
Silas doesn’t smile, not exactly, but he nudges his plate subtly toward me—half of his sandwich untouched—and offers me the other half without a word.
My chest tightens, but not in a bad way. It’s that uncomfortable feeling that comes with being seen. With being cared for. With being…included.
“I’m good,” I tell him gently, wiping the grease from my fingers with my paper napkin. That sandwich was sooo good, but damn, it was filling.
He nods once, unbothered as he pulls the plate back toward himself and digs into the second half.
I tuck one leg beneath me, turning slightly in my chair to watch them all—really watch them—as they banter back and forth while polishing off the last of their food. None of them feels like the boys I feared when I stepped onto Valehurst’s campus.
They feel like a unit. Like a team.
Like I’ve somehow been absorbed into the rhythm of something unspoken. Like I belong here, in this house that smells like burned batter and fresh coffee.
I’m still raw. Still sore. Still grieving the girl I was before that night. But this? This moment? This safety?
It doesn’t feel fragile.
It feels like the start of something I’ve never had before.
Ronan clears his throat, breaking the quiet that settles. “Did you sleep okay?”