22. Wren #2
I glance up from my coffee, cupped between my hands. A beat passes before I nod. “I did, actually. I don’t remember passing out, but I slept like the dead. Better than I have in years.”
I swear Ronan’s chest expands at that, almost as if he’s proud of the fact that I had my best sleep ever on his sofa.
How do you feel after everything last night?
Silas writes, pushing the notebook into the middle of the table for the others to read.
“Better.”
I look between them—three sets of eyes watching me.
“Lighter,” I add after a moment of self-reflection. “Exhausted, but lighter. Like I’ve been carrying this thing for years, and I didn’t realize how much it was crushing me until I let part of it go.”
“That’s good,” Lucian says, leaning in. His eyes bore into mine, as though searching, needing clarification that I’m telling the truth, that I’m not hiding from myself.
Ronan’s gaze flickers between us, then he shifts in his chair.
“So…” he says carefully. “Where do we go from here?”
I glance around the table. Once again, all eyes are on me. Waiting.
I chew on my lower lip. Where do we go from here? The truth is, I don’t know. For so long, I’ve only focused on surviving. On avoiding. On staying upright enough that no one could see the cracks.
But now…the cracks are exposed.
I tighten my grip around the coffee cup, fingers curling into the warmth.
“I don’t have an answer for that,” I say softly. “Not yet.”
The words taste vulnerable on my tongue, yet they are the truth.
“I spent so long trying not to think about that night. Trying to bury it. Ignore it. Rewrite it. I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to feel it.” My voice falters. I don’t look up. “Now I have, and…it didn’t break me.”
Silas shifts beside me, the faintest movement of presence and support.
“I think…” I pause. “I think I need to figure out who I am without that weight dragging me down. I don’t want that night to be what defines me anymore.”
Lucian leans back in his chair, arms crossed. His expression is one of thought, of consideration. “So that’s the plan?” he asks gently. “Figure out who the hell you are?”
I nod.
There is a beat of silence before Ronan states with soft assurance, “We can work with that.”
I blink. “What?”
He shrugs, a faint smile playing at his mouth. “It’s a plan. Doesn’t need to be a complicated one. You figure out who you are, and we’ll be here. However you need us.”
Silas reaches for his notebook and scribbles something down, turning it toward me.
You’re not alone in this anymore.
Lucian grunts. “Hell no, and if I ever find the bastard who hurt you, he’ll discover exactly how it feels to be broken and alone, left for dead.”
His voice is low, but deadly. A vow. No drama. No flair. Just truth. A promise that he means.
The air tightens around the table, like everyone’s holding their breath.
It’s not what Lucian said. He’s the type to speak frequently of such violence.
It’s the absolute conviction behind his words that resonates.
I stare at him for a long second, letting the weight of his promise settle.
There’s no pity in his eyes, no performance.
Only fire. Fury. And the quiet kind of loyalty that burns steady and bright.
“I’m not sure I want to find him,” I confess quietly. I’m not even sure it would be possible to find him after all these years. Most likely, it was a BSU student anyway, so the chances of hunting him down while at Valehurst are basically zilch.
I spent the past three years at BSU, staring into the faces of strangers and asking myself, are you him?
And it never did me any good. It didn’t solve anything.
Didn’t fix what happened. It only held me back.
Cemented me in the clutches of the past. If I want to move forward—truly move forward—then I need to let go of everything from that night, including the notion of ever finding out who attacked me.
Who stole such a pivotal piece of my soul.
Lucian tilts his head, waiting.
“I just want to move forward,” I explain. “Not forget, because I’ll never forget, but finally live again. On my terms.”
That gets a slow nod from Ronan and a faint squeeze from Silas, his hand resting on mine again without me even noticing when it got there. Like it never really left.
No more is said after that.
There are no grand declarations. No solemn promises. There doesn’t need to be.
The moment just settles, quiet and full of something unspoken but collectively understood. Lucian picks up his coffee. Ronan unwraps his sandwich. Silas nudges his hash browns toward me when I eye them a second too long.
And just like that, the conversation shifts. To hockey practice and their upcoming game. To classes and midterms. To the guys rock-paper-scissoring over who is doing this week’s grocery shopping and whether or not Silas could beat Ronan in a one-on-one shootout.
Nothing life-altering. Nothing heavy, but everything that matters.
Everything that is real. It is the kind of everyday normal that feels like a balm.
I sit there, bare feet on the chair and knees pulled up as I listen to them tease and argue and just be—and for the first time in years, I think I might actually be okay.
Not necessarily today. Not even tomorrow.
But someday.
And for now, knowing that is enough.