Talon
Wren’s been sleeping better, and I thank the stars for it every night.
Not perfectly. He still wakes up tense some mornings, and there are nights when he clings to me in his sleep like he’s trying to outrun something, even with the sleep powder in his system.
But it’s better. The sleep powder dulls Lord Yelling’s influence enough that Wren can actually rest, and that’s enough to ease the constant knot that’s been living in my chest.
He smiles in the mornings again. That’s the part I keep noticing.
He hums while he makes coffee. He leans against the counter and steals bites of whatever I’m testing before breakfast is technically ready.
He flirts just to make me blush. It’s his sweet kisses that make my heart flutter, though.
It feels like I have my Wren back, even if I know things still aren’t perfect.
The bakery has been chaos for the last week because the Summer Festival is coming up fast, and Wick has decided that means we all need to work ourselves half to death in the name of seasonal pastries.
He’s not entirely wrong. Festival week is one of the biggest events in Hex.
Wick and I have been bouncing recipes and ideas off each other every day, trying to strike the right balance between the classics people expect and new things they’ll get excited about.
We settled on fruit tarts, honey lavender scones, lemon bars, mini berry galettes, and a few fancier cupcakes decorated with edible flowers.
I’m ridiculously excited about the flowers.
They aren’t just pretty. They work perfectly with the flavors.
Violet sugar on the lemon cakes, candied pansies on the berry tarts, tiny pressed petals over whipped cream.
Wick claims I’m being dramatic about garnish, but he also approved all of it, so clearly my genius is being recognized.
By the time we finish closing up for the night, I’m covered in flour and sugar and one streak of purple icing I somehow got on my forearm without noticing. My back aches. My feet ache. My hands smell like butter and citrus and vanilla.
Wren looks unfairly good for someone who’s spent all day on his feet too.
He’s leaning against the counter waiting for me, sleeves rolled to his elbows, white hair falling into his eyes.
There’s powdered sugar on one side of his black shirt and he doesn’t seem to know it’s there.
Or maybe he does and doesn’t care. Either way, I’m staring.
Wren catches me and smirks. “See something you like?” He pushes off the counter and comes over, hooking a finger into the front of my apron. “You ready?”
I blink at him. “Ready for what?”
“You didn’t forget our date,” he pouts.
“Of course not,” I say quickly. “I didn’t forget.”
Wren narrows his eyes.
“I forgot what time it was,” I admit.
Wick looks up from wiping down trays. “Get out of here, both of you. I’m not paying either of you to make eyes at each other after closing.”
Wren laughs and grabs my hand before I can say anything else. “Come on, griffin.”
He drags me out the back door before Wick can throw a towel at him.
The evening air is warm, the kind of summer night that makes the whole town feel slower.
Probably because we’re all breathing through soup air.
It’s still early and people are starting to prep for the Summer Festival.
Strings of lights are being hung between storefronts, and someone’s testing music in the square.
We pass a pair of witches arguing over flower arrangements and one of the local vampires carrying what looks like six folding chairs by himself.
Wren keeps my hand in his as we walk, swinging our joined hands a little like he can’t help himself.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“If I tell you, it ruins the mystery.”
“I don’t trust mystery.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.” Wren grins at me.
“It’s a survival skill.”
I let him tug me another block before I figure it out.
“The food trucks?” I ask.
Wren turns to me with a smile. “It sounded fun.”
The town started bringing in food trucks for festival week last year, and apparently they’re back. The park near the square is lined with them. Lights glow in the dusk, people milling around with paper trays and drinks in hand. It smells like grilled meat, fried dough, garlic, sugar, and summer.
Wren immediately pulls me toward a truck selling loaded fries with magic.
“I thought this was a date,” I say.
“It is. We’re romancing each other with grease.”
He orders a basket piled high with cheese, herbs, and some kind of spicy sauce. He grabs a fry and moans around the bite.
“That’s my fry,” I tell him.
“It was your fry,” he corrects.
We split the fries, then a pair of stuffed hand pies from another truck, and finally a funnel cake dusted in enough powdered sugar coat us both. Wren gets it all over his mouth within thirty seconds.
“Hold still,” I tell him.
He does, surprisingly, and I swipe my thumb across the corner of his mouth.
Wren goes quiet. It only lasts a second, but I notice it. The shift. The softness that sneaks in when he forgets to keep joking for a minute.
He laughs and leans into my side as we wander away from the trucks and toward the edge of the park, where it’s quieter. There’s a bench near the fountain, half hidden by festival decorations waiting to be hung tomorrow, and we claim it before anyone else can.
For a while, we just sit there. Wren’s shoulder is pressed to mine.
The square is noisy a block away, but here it’s mostly the sound of the fountain and the occasional burst of laughter drifting over from the food trucks.
He relaxes against me, loose and warm and happy in a way that feels a little unreal sometimes.
“Thanks for this,” he says after a minute.
I look down at him. “For buying you fries?”
“For taking me out.” He glances up, expression softer than usual. “For not expecting me to be perfect.”
My chest tightens a little. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I know.” Wren hooks his pinky with mine where our hands rest on the bench between us. “I wanted to.”
I lift our joined hands and kiss his knuckles before I can overthink it.
Wren goes pink. I pull him closer, settling my arm around his shoulders. He comes easily, resting against my side with a quiet sigh that tells me he’s tired but content, not worn down to the bone the way he was a few weeks ago.
It’s such a small thing, a date after work. Food trucks, festival lights, Wren stealing my fries and pretending he isn’t charmed when I wipe sugar from his face.
But sitting there with him tucked against me, his hand tangled with mine, I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.