14. Wren
Wren
His hair smells like my soap.
He’s wrapped around me like I might disappear, leg thrown over my hip, arm slung across my chest, face pressed into the hollow of my throat, and he’s purring.
So low it’s barely there, more vibration than sound, like a tiny motor idling in his chest. The claiming bite on his neck is silvering at the edges and still tender in the middle, and when I tilt my head to look at it, my whole body goes tight. Half possessive, half terrified.
I did that. He asked me to. It’s permanent, and he’s here.
Mine.
He’s awake. I can tell by his breathing, and neither of us has said anything yet, and I could stay inside that for an hour.
His purring stops.
“Soren—“
“I know.” His voice is quiet. Careful. “I know. I just need a second.”
I give him a second. I give him ten. My hand stays on his shoulder because I don’t know if taking it away would be worse.
“I should’ve told you,” I say. My voice comes out rough. “Before the bite. Before any of it. I should’ve just—I thought if I told you, you’d see it was just me. Some guy with a knife and a lot of sawdust, and the birds would stop being magic. They’d just be... weird.”
Because that’s the thing I keep coming back to.
Soren loved the mystery. He said it himself: the not-knowing was part of the romance, the fairy tale of being chosen by someone invisible and devoted.
I watched him light up over those birds for months, watched him cradle each one like it was a love letter from the universe, and I was so sure that the moment the universe turned out to be me, awkward, quiet, can’t-hold-a-conversation me, the spell would break.
He loved the idea of the admirer. I’m scared he can’t love the guy.
He turns his head. Looks at me with those dark eyes, and there’s so much in them I can’t sort it. Tenderness and frustration and something that might be awe.
His fingers find the bite mark on his own neck. He presses them against it, not flinching, not covering it up. Just holding it, like he’s checking that it’s real.
“I love you,” he says. “That’s not the part I’m confused about.” A beat, his thumb still on the mark. “I just need my brain to catch up, and I can’t think straight when you smell like this and I’m wearing your bite and my whole body wants to climb back on top of you instead of being rational.”
The corner of his mouth pulls, barely. Enough.
His hand finds my wrist. Squeezes once, deliberate, his thumb pressing right into my pulse. Then he lets go.
“I’m not running,” he says. “I just need to catch my breath.”
“Okay,” I manage.
“Okay.”
Getting dressed is a disaster. Takes me three tries to find my shirt because it’s tangled in a blanket, and when I finally get it on, it’s inside out.
I don’t notice until I’m in the hallway.
I walk shoulder-first into the doorframe on my way out, hard enough to leave a mark.
Soren doesn’t laugh, but I can feel him watching me, and I kind of wish he would.
At least that would be a sound in the silence.
His apartment door clicks shut behind me. I stand in the corridor for a long moment, hand flat against the cool wall, breathing.
He squeezed my wrist. He said he’s not running. Every instinct I have wants me to turn around, walk back in, pull him against my chest and not let go. But he asked for space, and I keep my promises. It’s one of the few things I’m decent at.
I leave.
***
My phone starts blowing up around noon.
Aaron: how’d it go
Aaron: bro
Aaron: answer your phone
Aaron: I swear to god if you’re sitting in your workshop staring at wood i’m coming over there
I type back: I’m fine.
Aaron: ??
Aaron: ??????
Aaron: did you eat
I look at the protein bar I’ve been holding for twenty minutes without opening. Yes.
Aaron: LIAR. you are literally incapable of lying to anyone except yourself. eat something real or i’m bringing you food and making you talk about your feelings
I put the phone face-down on the workbench and pick up a piece of sandpaper.
Kendra’s festival panel is at three. “Telling the Story Behind Your Work.” Her idea, because of course.
She runs the whole schedule like a woman who’s never been told no and wouldn’t hear it if she was.
I could skip it. I should skip it. I’m in no shape to talk about my work when my work and the way I hid behind it are why the best thing that’s ever happened to me might be wobbling.
But I go anyway. I told Kendra I would.
The gallery is bright and packed. Folding chairs, a microphone on a stand, Kendra at the front with her clipboard and her enormous earrings, radiating her usual tell-me-your-trauma-for-the-audience energy.
Four of us on the panel: a ceramicist, a photographer, a textile artist, and me.
The tree is behind us on the display table, branches reaching.
I can’t look at it without seeing Soren’s face when he figured it out.
The first three artists talk about their process. Inspiration, materials, emotional stuff. Fine. Normal.
Then Kendra turns to me.
“Wren, your piece is extraordinary. The tree, the bark texture, the way the birds nestle into the canopy—it all feels alive. Can you tell us about the emotional core of this work?”
“I like making things,” I say.
Kendra waits. The audience waits. The silence gets loud.
“Can you say more about the tree specifically?” she presses.
“Trees hold things.” My jaw aches from clenching. “They don’t drop stuff on purpose. They just stand there and let things land.”
“They’re honest,” I say. “They don’t pretend to be anything they’re not. And they keep showing up, even when you don’t—“ My throat closes. “It’s about paying attention. To the things that keep appearing in your life. Building them somewhere they can’t get knocked over.”
My voice sounds wrong in the speakers. Too big for what I’m saying. I’m not the poet. Soren is. But Kendra leans forward wanting more, and I’m out of words.
“I need water,” I mutter, and I’m off the stage before anyone can stop me, pushing through a side door into the hallway where the air is cooler and nobody is looking at me like I cracked myself open for sixty strangers.
I lean against the wall. Close my eyes. My hands are shaking.
I leave early. In the parking lot, I check my phone. Three texts from Soren.
What time is your install slot tomorrow?
Kendra wants to confirm my reading order—do you know if she changed the schedule?
Can you check if the gallery has extra easels? Thank you!
All logistics. All properly punctuated, because Soren always texts like he’s writing a letter. The “thank you” with the exclamation point, that’s still him.
But nothing real. Nothing personal. Business. I read them four times anyway, like there’s a hidden message in one of them if I squint.
And there it is. The thought I’ve been pushing down all day, pressing against my ribs since this morning when the purring stopped.
He loved the mystery.
Then the story turned out to be me. Quiet. Clumsy. Walks into doorframes. Can’t get through a panel without bolting for the exit. The birds were romantic. I’m a guy with sawdust in his hair who hid behind them for months because standing in front of him with nothing in my hands felt impossible.
I end up in the workshop. Of course I do. Where else would I go? There’s always something to work on, something to distract me. Three beats smooth, one beat catch.
An hour later, the door bangs open.
Aaron doesn’t knock. Never has in his life. He walks in, takes one look at me, and crosses the room in three strides.
He plucks the sandpaper right out of my hand.
“Hey—“
“Nope.” He holds it over his head. He’s only one inch shorter than me, but somehow stretches himself way above my head. “You’re done.”
“Give it back.”
“You’re going to sand your arm off at this point. Sit down.”
“Aaron—“
“Sit. Down.”
I sit. Not because he’s right, but because my legs are tired and the stool is right there and fine. Whatever. I’m sitting.
Aaron pulls up the other stool, the wobbly one with the paint stain, and drops onto it across from me. Still holding the sandpaper hostage.
“Talk,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You have sawdust in your eyebrows. You are the opposite of fine. Talk.”
I take a deep breath, and let it out. All of it. I tell Aaron everything, and it comes out in a rush. The bite, the confession, how Soren cried when he told me how upset he was that the birds stopped.
I stare at the floor. There’s a curl of cherry wood shaving near my boot. “He asked for space.”
“Okay. That’s normal. That’s a person processing stuff.”
“He texted me about easels, Aaron. Easels.”
“Which means he’s still texting you. He’s not ghosting. He’s just not ready for the big stuff yet.”
“He only liked the idea of me.” The words come out so quiet I barely hear them.
“The mystery. The fairy tale. He used to talk about the admirer like they were something perfect, and now he knows. Now it’s just me.
I walked into a doorframe this morning. I panicked at a panel and ran offstage.
I can’t get through a conversation about my own art without bolting. ”
“Stop.” Aaron’s voice drops. His serious voice. That means I’m in trouble. “You’re doing the thing.”
“I’m not doing a thing.”
“You are doing the exact thing. Where you take someone who clearly gives a shit about you and convince yourself they don’t because you’re not—what? Interesting enough? Smooth enough? Loud enough?”
I don’t answer.
“Wren. Look at me.”
I look at him. He’s got his serious face on, which on Aaron looks wrong.
“That guy let you bite him,” Aaron says, voice steady. “He let you knot him in his nest. He told you he’s in love with you. And yeah, he asked for space this morning, because you dropped a bomb on him and he’s allowed to have feelings about that. But he’s not gone.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that hiding in your workshop sanding your feelings into sawdust is the same bullshit that had you leaving anonymous birds instead of just talking to him.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“You know what your problem is? You think your art is the only good part of you. You think if you stop building things for people, they’ll stop showing up.
And that’s bullshit, Wren. It’s always been bullshit. ”
I swallow hard. The cherry shaving is still by my boot. I stare at it.
“Also,” Aaron says, leaning back, “Mr. Ellis told me the arts council lady was crying during your panel.”
I stare at him. “He’s not serious.”
“He’s extremely serious. So, you need to get your head right, because that tree is your work and you’re either going to show up for it or you’re going to let this opportunity slip through your fingers. Your call.”
I don’t answer. He’s right about all of it and I hate every word.
“Those guys like you, by the way.” Aaron’s voice goes lighter. “Knox asked me if you were okay. Benji texted me. You’ve got people now, dumbass. Not because of what you make. Because of who you are.”
I didn’t know that. Knox. Benji. Checking on me through my brother because they know I won’t answer my own phone. People I didn’t build anything for. They showed up anyway.
“He’ll come to you,” Aaron says. “Give him a day. And for the love of god, stop sanding shit.”