Chapter 29 Wren
The apartment feels smaller tonight.
It’s not. It’s the same four walls, the same narrow hall, the same couch that still smells faintly like Finn’s cologne from last night. But something about the air is different. Thicker. Heavy in the corners, like the shadows know things I don’t want to remember.
I shut the door behind me and stand there with my hand still on the lock, forehead resting against the wood. My heart hasn’t stopped its uneven rhythm since the rink, a quiet stutter that feels like footsteps I can’t hear but still sense.
Kael’s plan is still echoing in my head.
Finn’s calm voice.
Atlas’s too-big presence in the doorway.
Three different ways of holding me steady.
Three anchors I didn’t ask for and didn’t know I needed.
I peel myself away from the door and toss my keys into the dish by the counter. They clatter louder than they should. I wince. My nerves are strung like violin strings pulled too tight.
My phone is still off. Kael didn’t force me. He gave me the choice. But once I saw the three of them watching me—waiting for me to decide, not deciding for me—I pressed the button and shut the thing down.
A strange kind of relief followed.
A strange kind of grief too.
I breathe slowly, moving through the apartment without turning any of the overhead lights on. I leave the lamp near the couch lit—the same one that stayed on while Finn slept on my floor last night, refusing to leave unless I kicked him out.
I didn’t.
Tonight, though... tonight I’m alone.
And it’s the first time in a long time where alone doesn’t feel like escape.
It feels like danger.
I drop onto the couch, pull my knees up, and wrap my arms around them. The room hums quietly—a fridge cycling on, a car passing outside, distant laughter from upstairs. Familiar sounds. Harmless sounds. My brain tries to convince me otherwise.
A knock on the wall in the hallway makes my pulse spike.
It’s nothing.
Someone closing their door.
Not him.
But fear doesn’t argue with logic. It doesn’t care.
I bury my face in my knees for a moment, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
I shouldn’t be shaking.
I shouldn’t be falling apart.
I should be stronger by now.
But that’s the lie Adrian taught me: that strength only counts if it’s quiet. If no one sees it break. If no one gets burdened by the pieces.
Tonight proved how wrong that was.
Three men saw the cracks.
Three men didn’t leave.
I lift my head and stare at the dim room.
Finn’s voice is still with me.
“You don’t have to white-knuckle it alone.”
“You can shake and I’ll still stand here.”
Atlas, too.
“If someone is putting that look in your eyes... call me. I’ll answer.”
And Kael—
“We are not asking you to be fearless. We’re asking you to be honest.”
Honesty is harder than fear.
Especially when your whole life has been built around pretending fear doesn’t hurt.
I unfold slowly and cross the room to the little shelf where my textbooks sit. I’m supposed to review notes for tomorrow’s clinical rotation. I’m supposed to be studying ankle biomechanics and rehab progressions and concussion protocols.
Instead I stare at the cover until the words blur.
It’s useless.
My mind won’t stay still long enough.
I shut the book and let it fall onto the couch beside me. My fingers itch toward my phone out of habit, but it’s still off, still silent, still mercifully dark.
I should feel free without it blinking at me.
I should feel safe.
But silence is louder now.
Silence is where Adrian used to live.
I press a hand to my chest, right over the spot where my heartbeat feels uneven.
Maybe I should’ve stayed with one of them tonight.
Finn offered.
Atlas would’ve taken the couch without question.
And Kael... he didn’t offer out loud, but he didn’t have to. The way he positioned himself in the doorway, shielding the hall like he was redirecting the wind—yeah. He would’ve said yes if I asked.
But I didn’t want to look needy.
Didn’t want to be watched.
Didn’t want to pull them deeper.
And maybe a part of me wanted to prove I was still capable of being alone.
It just doesn’t feel good.
My eyes drift toward the window. It’s dark enough outside that the glass reflects the living room back at me. I move closer and tug the curtains to the side a couple inches.
Outside, the parking lot is still. Two cars, a dead streetlight, a layer of frost starting to form on the metal railings. No movement. No shadows.
That should help.
It doesn’t.
I let the curtain fall and step away.
My breath is uneven again.
I need a distraction. Anything.
I head to the freezer and pull out ice cream I don’t remember buying. I eat two bites standing by the counter, not tasting any of it. The cold reminds me of the rink. Of Kael skating alone under the bright center lights—he told me once that late-night skates are where he straightens out the world.
I wish I knew how to do that.
Straighten out the world.
Straighten out myself.
Another knock echoes from somewhere in the building—footsteps this time. Heavy. Moving down the hall.
My heart stops.
I freeze mid-step, ice cream forgotten, spoon still in my hand. The footsteps get closer—then stop somewhere near my door.
Please. Please not this.
My throat tightens.
I don’t breathe.
Then—
A door clicks open.
Someone laughs.
A high, feminine voice.
Not him.
Not danger.
The tension spills out of me in a shaky exhale. My knees weaken. I grip the counter until the tremble passes.
I can’t live like this.
Not again.
Not anymore.
Kael was right.
Finn was right.
Atlas was right.
I need a plan.
I need support.
I need—
A soft buzz vibrates against the counter behind me.
My phone.
Even though it’s off.
I whip around, breath catching, but it’s not the phone.
It’s the building’s front door intercom.
A red blink.
One short buzz.
Someone rang the wrong apartment, I tell myself. It happens. Neighbors forget numbers. Delivery drivers hit the wrong button.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
The buzzer doesn’t sound again.
But the fear stays lodged in my throat.
I go to the couch, grab the blanket, and wrap it tightly around myself. The air feels colder now. The room feels too big in some places, too small in others. I sit on the floor with my back to the couch, legs pulled tight to my chest.
My eyes burn.
I don’t want to cry.
I don’t want to be afraid.
I don’t want to give Adrian space in my head again.
I press my forehead to my knees, chest shaking with a breath I can’t swallow.
God, I wish one of them were here.
Finn, with his warmth and soft hands and the way he talks like he’s trying to build a room out of comfort.
Atlas, with his quiet gravity and the way he holds the world back with his shoulders.
Kael, with his calm, steady voice and the way he looks at problems like he can dismantle them piece by piece.
I shouldn’t need all three of them.
I shouldn’t want to.
But I do.
And the wanting feels terrifying in its own way.
I wipe my eyes fast and drag in a breath. It doesn’t settle the ache.
Another buzz.
This one is my phone.
Not the intercom.
My phone.
Except—
I turned it off.
I stare at the drawer on the entertainment stand where I shoved it before coming home. The faintest slice of light seeps through the seam.
It turned itself back on.
Or I didn’t hold the button long enough.
Or—
My stomach heaves.
I can’t do this alone.
I stand.
Stumble.
Grab the phone with shaking fingers. I want to throw it against the wall. Want to drop it in the sink and run water until it dies.
But I hold it.
I hold it... and I do the hardest thing I’ve done in years.
I say the one word I told the boys would be my signal.
“Hydrate,” I whisper into the empty room.
And then I press the power button again, holding it until the light dies.
My breath collapses out of me, a broken thing.
And before the fear can swallow me again, I grab my coat. My shoes. My bag.
I text the group chat Kael made earlier:
WREN: Coming over. Can someone meet me outside?
Three dots appear immediately.
KAEL: On my way.
A second set.
FINN: Leaving now.
A third.
ATLAS: Stay where I can see you.
My chest cracks open—relief, fear, something else I can’t name.
I lock the door behind me.
Walk down the hall.
Push open the building’s front door and step into the cold Boston night.
And for the first time all day...
I don’t feel alone.