Chapter 34 Kael
Wren chooses me.
She says my name—quiet, careful, almost unsure she’s allowed to want something—and for a second everything in the kitchen stops.
Even the air feels different. Finn’s eyes flick toward me, warm but tight at the corners.
Atlas goes still in that way he does before a hit, like he’s bracing for something hard to land.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
Don’t let anything show on my face.
But inside?
Something shifts.
Not triumph.
Not excitement.
Something heavier. Something that feels suspiciously like responsibility and want braided too tightly together.
Wren looks down at her coffee like she regrets choosing. Like she’s waiting for one of us to say it’s wrong. That she’s wrong.
She isn’t.
I set my mug down quietly. “Alright,” I say. “We’ll leave when you’re ready.”
She nods, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble just slightly, and it hits me all over again—she slept last night because we were there. She chose me this morning because she needs steady, and steady is the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
Finn squeezes her shoulder as he passes her on his way to the living room. Atlas lingers a half-second longer than necessary before stepping back, eyes sharp on me like he’s measuring how I’m going to handle this.
I ignore both of them.
“Wren?” I say softly. “We’ll take whatever pace you want.”
Her eyes meet mine. For a moment she looks like she might break. Then she nods again, smaller this time, and disappears into the bathroom to change.
The second the door closes, Finn exhales a breath he’d been holding. Atlas rakes a hand through his hair and mutters something under his breath I don’t catch.
They’re worried.
I get it.
So am I.
But she chose. And choice matters.
Atlas leans against the counter next to me, crossing his arms. “Take care of her.”
It’s not a request.
It’s not a challenge.
It’s a warning.
I lift one brow. “I do.”
His jaw works, but he doesn’t push. Finn looks between us, face softer, concern written in every line.
“If she looks overwhelmed,” Finn says quietly, “get her somewhere calm.”
“I know.”
“And if she zones out?” Finn adds. “Just... anchor her. Say her name. Touch her hand. Slow her breathing.”
“I know,” I repeat.
Atlas snorts. “He read a medical manual for her last night.”
“Shut up,” Finn fires back.
I don’t comment. They aren’t wrong.
The door opens before they can start something. Wren steps out wearing jeans, boots, and the sweatshirt I gave her from the equipment room days ago when she forgot hers. She carries herself like she’s trying not to shrink, trying not to look like she ran here from fear.
She doesn’t realize she’s succeeding. She always underestimates herself.
“Ready?” I ask.
She breathes in, holds it, lets it out. “Yeah.”
I grab my jacket and walk with her toward the door. Finn watches us, eyes warm. Atlas watches too, but his stare is harder—protective in a different way. He’ll take the next shift whether I assign it or not.
Outside, the air is cold enough to sting. Wren zips her sweatshirt halfway up, shoulders tucking inward before she catches herself and stands straighter.
“I can walk fast,” she murmurs.
“We walk your speed,” I answer.
She glances at me. “That’s not what I meant.”
I know what she meant. She meant she doesn’t want to look like the girl who needs guarding. She meant she doesn’t want to slow me down. She meant she doesn’t want to be a weight.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs, turn to face her, and let my voice go quiet enough she has to look at me.
“You’re not slowing me down.”
Something flickers across her face—relief, maybe disbelief. It’s gone before I can name it.
We start walking.
I stay half a step closer than is strictly necessary—close enough that if she stumbles, if she startles, if she even breathes unevenly, I’ll feel it. But not touching. Not crowding.
The sidewalk is mostly empty. Wren keeps scanning the street, her eyes flicking to every passing car, every shadow, every doorway.
“He isn’t here,” I say.
I don’t know that. But her body needs to hear it.
Wren swallows hard. “I know.”
She doesn’t.
It’s in the tightness of her hands, the way she keeps checking her phone isn’t vibrating even though it’s off. The way her breath speeds up at each corner.
“You want to take the longer route?” I ask. “Quieter. Less traffic.”
She hesitates. “Yes. Actually... yeah.”
We turn down Oakmont instead of Hanover. The street gets quieter immediately. The trees lining the sidewalk muffle sound more than they should. Wren’s shoulders loosen by a fraction.
I track everything out of habit—windows, car engines, distance to crosswalks, people on the opposite sidewalk. I’m not paranoid. I’m practiced. You don’t captain a team without learning to read danger before it arrives.
Wren tucks her hands into her pockets. “Kael?”
“Yeah?”
She licks her lips, voice small. “Does this feel like... too much?”
I stop walking.
She does too, confusion wrinkling between her brows.
“Wren,” I say, “none of this is too much.”
Her throat works. She looks down at the pavement. “I’ve been dealing with him for so long. It feels stupid to finally need people now.”
I move a little closer—not touching, just enough that she feels my presence instead of the air.
“It’s not stupid,” I say. “It’s human.”
Her jaw trembles. “He’s probably not even here. I’m probably just—”
“You’re not imagining things.”
Her breath catches. She looks up slowly, like she’s waiting for anger or disappointment. I give her neither.
“You reacted because your body recognizes a threat,” I say. “You reacted because your history trained you to. Not because you’re weak.”
A tear gathers at the corner of her eye and she wipes it quickly, embarrassed.
“Don’t do that,” I say softly.
“Do what?”
“Hide that you’re scared.”
She crosses her arms, curling inward. “I don’t want you to think—”
“Wren.” I step closer. “I don’t think less of you for surviving.”
Her breath shakes.
I want to touch her.
Not because she needs it.
Because I do.
I reach out slowly, letting her see the motion. My fingers land lightly on her forearm—barely a touch, barely pressure, but her entire body reacts. I feel the tremble through her sleeve.
“You’re not alone,” I say.
Her eyes close. “I know. I’m trying to believe it.”
I slide my thumb slightly, not enough to overwhelm her—just enough to say I’m here.
“You will,” I murmur. “And until then, we believe it for you.”
She inhales sharply, like the words cracked something open she didn’t expect.
“Kael,” she whispers. “How do you stay so calm?”
I almost laugh—unexpected, quiet. “I’m not.”
Her eyes open, searching my face. “You look like you are.”
I let the truth slip. “For you, I can be.”
The air tightens between us.
Not with fear.
With heat.
Wren’s eyes drop to my mouth for a second—just one—and that’s all it takes for something deep in my chest to pull taut.
She steps back like she felt it too. “We should... keep walking.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice lower than before. “We should.”
We start down the sidewalk again. Her fingers brush mine once—accidental or not, I can’t tell—but the contact sparks through me like electricity.
When we reach the intersection, she tenses again. Cars pass. A bus slows. A man in a black jacket crosses the street. Wren’s hands shake.
I shift my body, stepping slightly in front of her, creating a barrier without announcing it. She exhales shakily behind me.
“You’re alright,” I say quietly. “I’ve got you.”
When the light changes, I move with her at a pace she sets. Halfway across, she moves closer to me—closer than she has all morning—her arm brushing mine, her shoulder warm against my sleeve.
She doesn’t move away.
Neither do I.
Her voice is barely audible. “Thank you.”
I don’t answer with words. I just walk beside her, matching her breath, matching her steps, anchored to her like gravity.
She doesn’t say anything else until we’re halfway down the block.
“Kael,” she says suddenly. “What if he really is here?”
I don’t hesitate.
“Then he’ll have to get through me.”
She swallows. “And Finn.”
“And Atlas,” I add.
“And me,” she whispers.
I stop again.
Turn to her fully.
“Yes,” I say. “And you. Especially you.”
Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t cry. She stands straighter instead.
We keep walking.
When we reach the building, she hesitates at the steps. “Will you... stay a minute?”
“Yeah,” I say. “As long as you want.”
She turns to me then, eyes soft, vulnerable, full of a trust she’s trying so hard to hold.
“I’m glad you came with me,” she says quietly.
I don’t touch her.
I want to.
But she’s giving me a gift, not asking for a response.
So I give her honesty.
“I would’ve come if you chose anyone else,” I say. “But I’m glad you chose me.”
A long, charged silence stretches between us.
She steps closer. Just a fraction. Enough that the morning cold disappears.
Her voice is almost a whisper. “I feel safe with you.”
My entire body reacts.
“You are,” I say.
She looks at me for one more heartbeat, then turns toward the building.
I watch until she’s inside.
Until the door closes.
Until she’s out of sight.
Only then do I pull out my phone and text the group thread:
Kael: Inside. Safe. I’ll wait outside until she finishes.
Finn responds first.
Atlas responds second.
But it’s Wren’s message that hits me hardest.
Wren: Thank you.
I stare at the screen, feeling the weight of the morning settle into something sharper, stronger, more dangerous.
Adrian Frost doesn’t get another inch of her.
Not while I’m breathing.