Chapter 16 Finn
Wren looks like she didn’t sleep.
I see it the second I step into the hallway—she’s coming from the trainers’ office, shoulders curled, hoodie swallowing her frame, eyes shadowed like she spent the whole night fighting ghosts.
And losing.
She doesn’t notice me at first. She’s rubbing her thumb over her phone like she’s trying to erase something from the screen. Or from her head.
My stomach tightens.
Kael was off this morning too—too quiet, too controlled, which for Kael means something is wrong. And if he’s acting weird and she’s acting like this?
Yeah. Something happened.
I step closer, gently. Carefully.
“Wren?”
She jumps.
Not a cute startled jump.
A fear jump.
Like she thought someone was about to grab her.
My chest aches. “Hey, it’s just me.”
She forces a breath out. “Sorry. I’m... distracted.”
“You okay?”
She nods too fast. “Yep. Just tired.”
“You say that like you slept negative hours.”
Her lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite. “Long night.”
I lean against the wall beside her, giving her space. I don’t want to crowd her like yesterday, like we all did. She said she needed space; I’m trying to respect it.
But god, it’s hard not to reach for her.
“You want coffee?” I ask. “Tea? My eternal devotion? A shoulder massage? A personal chauffeur? A four-hour nap? All of the above?”
She laughs. But it’s thin. Fragile. “Coffee’s fine.”
“I’ll get you one.”
“Finn, no—”
“I want to.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, then closes it again. That alone tells me she’s not okay.
I turn toward the direction of the café, but before I make it two steps, she says quietly:
“Finn?”
I stop immediately. “Yeah?”
She’s not looking at me—she’s looking at the floor, one hand wrapped tight around the other wrist, like she’s holding herself together.
“Can you...” She swallows. “Please don’t look at me like that.”
My heart pulls tight. “Like what?”
“Like I’m about to break.”
Fuck.
I didn’t mean to.
I swear I didn’t mean to.
“I’m not,” she whispers. “I’m okay.”
The lie is so soft, I almost miss it.
I step back toward her—but slowly, giving her the chance to stop me.
She doesn’t.
“Wren,” I say gently, “I’m not looking at you like you’re going to break. I’m looking at you like I care.”
Her breath stumbles.
Then she steps back.
An inch.
But it feels like a mile.
“I can’t... talk about anything right now,” she says, voice tight. “I just need to get through today.”
“Okay,” I say immediately. “You don’t have to talk to me. Or anyone.”
She nods, relieved.
“But don’t push me away,” I add softly. “I can’t pretend I don’t care.”
Her hands tremble.
“I’m not trying to push you away,” she whispers. “I just... can’t let anyone in right now.”
And I get it. I do.
But it doesn’t stop the small, sharp pain that digs under my ribs.
“Okay,” I say again. “Then I’ll stay right here.”
“Finn—”
“Not close,” I promise. “Not smothering. Just... here. In case you need something.”
Her throat works. She nods once, then slips past me, heading toward the rink.
I watch her go.
Shoulders tight.
Steps too quick.
Head down like she’s dodging invisible blows.
And I know—
deep in my chest, deep in my bones—
that something is hurting her.
Something she’s not telling us.
Something big.
And I don’t know how to fix it without breaking the one rule she just gave me:
Give her space.
So I stay exactly where I said I would.
Not close.
Not smothering.
Just here.
And praying she lets me in before whatever’s scaring her gets worse.