Chapter 48 Atlas
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Finn’s building is too bright in the morning.
Too warm.
Too... safe.
I hate how quickly I got used to the idea that she’d be here again tonight—layers of locks between her and whatever shadows Adrian Frost thinks he controls. I hate even more that the idea calmed something in my chest I didn’t want to name.
But the second Wren steps out of the bedroom wearing leggings and Finn’s stupid gray T-shirt, I know something’s different.
She isn’t soft.
Or hesitant.
Or looking for reassurance in the way she so often does without meaning to.
She’s resolved.
Her shoulders are squared.
Her chin is up.
Her eyes—usually so careful in the morning—are bright with something that looks like steel.
Kael sees it immediately.
Finn tries to pretend he doesn’t.
I don’t pretend anything.
We go through the logistics first—phones, locks, routes, coverage—but it feels like going through the motions. Wren absorbs the information, nods, asks smart questions. She tracks every detail like a medic with a test coming up.
But there’s a shift under her skin.
A decision.
A line.
It doesn’t hit until Finn slides a pancake in front of her and says, “Round two. Tonight we—”
She cuts him off without meaning to.
“I’m going home tonight.”
Everything stops.
Kael freezes mid-sip.
Finn’s spatula clatters against a plate.
I go still, the kind of still that comes right before a fight.
Wren swallows. “I need a night in my own place.”
“No,” I say before I can stop myself.
She looks at me—steadily, directly. “Atlas.”
“No.” I repeat it slower, quieter, but even less negotiable.
Kael steps in carefully. “Wren. We talked about this. Being alone—”
“I’m not made of glass,” she says. “And I can’t spend the rest of my life... hiding. I need to go home. Just one night.”
Finn looks like someone just kicked him in the ribs. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not proving anything,” she says. “I’m trying to live.”
Her voice cracks, just barely. She straightens before anyone can comment on it.
“I moved here for this job,” she continues. “For this team. For a life I want to build. My apartment is three blocks from the rink. It’s mine. I pay for it. I chose it. I sleep there. I shower there. I make coffee there. And I’m not letting Adrian Frost take that from me.”
The name hits the air and freezes it.
She rarely says it.
Never this calmly.
Kael sets his coffee down carefully. “Wren. We respect that. But we also can’t pretend we didn’t see what we saw in the footage.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I know what the footage looks like.”
“You know what he looks like,” I remind her.
She flinches. Barely. But enough.
I take a breath, fighting the instinct to move closer and to shut up at the same time.
Finn steps forward. “Just... stay one more night. At least tonight. Let’s regroup after practice tomorrow—”
“Finn,” she interrupts gently. “I love being here. I love being around you.”
He goes pink. She doesn’t notice.
“But I’m not staying here because I’m scared.”
“You’re not scared?” I ask, not because I don’t believe her—because fear looks different on her every day.
Her eyes meet mine. “I’m scared all the time.”
The truth of it hits hard enough to rock me.
“But,” she continues, “I’m also capable. And smart. And aware. And I know my building. And you checked it, Atlas. You cleared it.”
“I cleared it last night,” I say quietly. “Things change.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But I need to try.”
Kael crosses his arms. “We won’t allow—”
“I’m not asking permission,” she says.
Silence smothers the room.
Nobody breathes.
Nobody moves.
Wren swallows once. “I’m going home tonight. You can walk me in, if that makes you feel better. But after that... I need one night. One. In my bed. In my space. With my things. Without looking over my shoulder expecting someone to tell me I’m not allowed.”
Kael opens his mouth.
She holds up her hand, small but steady. “I’m not negotiating.”
Finn looks helpless. “We just want you safe.”
“I know,” she says softly. “And I love that about you. All of you. But safety doesn’t mean never being alone.”
I feel something deep and ugly twist in my gut.
Because she’s right.
And I hate that she’s right.
And I hate the part of me that wants to tell her she isn’t.
But I also know I can’t keep her under surveillance for the rest of her life. None of us can.
This isn’t about control.
It’s about fear.
And if I don’t manage my fear, it’ll crush her freedom. And then what? She’ll resent us. She’ll lose herself. She’ll become small. That’s not her. That’s not who we’re trying to protect.
Kael rakes a hand through his hair. “Wren...”
“I’m going home,” she repeats quietly. “Tonight.”
I lock eyes with her.
She doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t soften.
She doesn’t ask me to understand.
She just stands there, small and strong and stubborn and absolutely right, and something inside me... loosens.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Then we walk you home.”
She nods. “Okay.”
Finn swallows. “And you text us every hour.”
“No,” Kael says. “Every thirty minutes.”
Wren rolls her eyes. “That seems excessive.”
“You know what isn’t excessive?” I say, stepping closer. “Breathing.”
She exhales a shaky breath. “Atlas...”
“You text,” I insist. “Every thirty minutes. Pictures. Full timestamps.”
“I’m not sending timestamps like I’m testifying in court.”
“You are tonight.”
Her mouth twitches. She hates this. She understands it anyway.
“Fine,” she mutters. “Every thirty minutes.”
“And we walk you to the door,” Kael says.
“And check every room,” Finn adds, hope sparking in his eyes again.
I step closer. Her chin lifts automatically.
“And I’m keeping a truck outside,” I say. “Whole night.”
She stiffens. “Atlas...”
“I’m not asking permission,” I echo her earlier words back to her.
She nearly smiles. “Okay. But don’t freeze to death.”
I shrug. “Fine with me.”
She sighs, sinking onto the stool. “This isn’t how I meant this to go.”
“No shit,” Finn mutters.
She looks between all three of us. “I’m not trying to push you away.”
Kael leans against the counter. “We know.”
“I’m trying to push back the fear,” she says softly. “Just a little. Just enough to breathe.”
And that guts me.
Completely.
Because she’s not reckless.
She’s not ignoring the danger.
She’s not pretending Adrian isn’t a threat.
She’s reclaiming her life.
She looks at me again. “You cleared my place last night. You didn’t find anything.”
“That was last night,” I remind her.
“I know,” she says. “But it gave me courage.”
I inhale sharply.
Courage.
She got courage because I stood outside her window until my bones went numb and Kael brought me gloves and Finn texted updates every ten minutes about her laughing at pancake jokes.
Courage because we held her up.
But courage is hers now.
Kael nods slowly. “One night.”
“One,” she confirms.
Finn looks miserable but doesn’t argue.
I stay silent, because every argument I want to make would only clip her wings. And I’m not doing that. Not to her.
“Okay,” I say finally.
Her shoulders drop in relief. “Thank you.”
But I don’t say you’re welcome.
Because this isn’t welcome.
This is me swallowing the part of me that wants to barricade her inside Finn’s apartment and throw away the key.
Finn clears his throat. “So... we walk you home after practice?”
“Yes,” she says.
“And we sweep the building again,” Kael adds.
“Yes.”
“And you leave your curtains closed,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And your phone stays off until we swap it,” Kael reminds.
“Okay.”
“And you text—”
“Every thirty minutes,” she sighs. “I promised.”
Good.
Not enough.
But good.
Finn rubs the back of his neck. “I can make dinner before we take her—”
“No,” Wren says gently. “If we make a whole production of it, it defeats the purpose. I’m going home. Like a normal person. Just... walk me to the door.”
Kael nods once. “We can do that.”
I don’t say yes out loud.
But she looks at me, and whatever she sees is enough.
She softens just a little. “Atlas,” she says quietly, “I’ll be okay.”
“You better be,” I say, voice low.
She smiles—a small, strong thing that breaks and remakes me at the same time.
***
Later, when she heads to the shower, Finn slumps against the counter and rubs his face.
“I hate this.”
Kael doesn’t look up from the protection plan on his phone. “We all do.”
“She’s not scared,” Finn whispers. “She’s... determined. I don’t know how to argue with determined.”
“You don’t,” Kael says. “You support it.”
I stare at Wren’s empty seat.
Support her.
Right.
I can do that.
Even if it kills me.
“She’ll be alone,” Finn mutters. “All night.”
“No,” I say.
He looks up.
“She’ll be home,” I correct. “And we’ll be outside.”
Kael nods. “Same system as last night. But tighter.”
Finn exhales. “Okay.”
But when he says okay, it sounds like surrender.
When I say okay, it sounds like a vow.
When Wren returns—hair damp, cheeks flushed, wearing her own clothes again—I see the shift fully.
She’s not asking for courage.
She’s wearing it.
She tugs her jacket on and lifts her chin.
“Let’s go to practice.”
We follow her out the door like gravity itself decided she was the center of it.
And maybe she is.
Tonight, she’ll sleep alone.
But she won’t be alone.
Not with us watching the shadows.
Not with me parked under her window.
Not ever again.