35. Wrenley
THIRTY-FIVE
WRENLEY
B y the time Saint and I make it out of his house and to C’est Trois, Ivy’s sitting at a corner table in the crowded restaurant, a line of Barbies placed on the pristine linen and a single pink shoe half on, half off her foot.
She doesn’t look up when we come in, much too focused, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she positions each doll in perfect rows while Noa looks on.
But the second she hears my voice, just a soft “Hey, bug,” she drops everything and barrels into me like a heat-seeking missile.
She hits me hard enough that I stumble, laugh, and crouch down to hold her close.
“You came back,” she says into my shoulder.
I press my face into her hair.
“I did. Couldn’t stay away from you.”
Ivy’s arms squeeze tighter, little hands digging into my back.
Saint stands above us, watching with a look I’ve never seen him wear in public, unguarded and proud .
Noa elbows him, not delicately, and jerks her head toward me and Ivy as if to say, See? The world didn’t end .
Ivy pulls back, her nose inches from mine. “Can we eat yet?”
“Absolutely,” I say with a laugh.
Saint pulls out a chair for me, his hand a heavy, sure presence at my waist. The restaurant is packed, louder than I’ve ever seen it, the energy rolling off the walls in a way that would have made me twitchy a month ago.
But tonight, I feel curiously steady, like the three of us could hold against any noise the world throws at us.
The host brings menus, but Saint waves them off.
“We’re getting the chef’s menu,” he tells Ivy, who grins, because she knows that means tiny plates of everything and at least three kinds of bread.
Noa slides her purse over her shoulder and grins at us. “You know what? Now that you’re officially together, Stone and I should totally double-date with you two. We could go mini golfing. Saint would love that.”
Saint’s face goes carefully blank. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh come on, it’ll be fun. We can get matching T-shirts. Maybe do one of those escape rooms where you have to work together as a team.” Noa’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Stone’s really into trust exercises.”
“Noa.”
“What? I’m just saying, now that you’re all domesticated and posting feelings on the internet, you might as well lean into it.” She winks at me. “Fair warning, Saint gets really competitive at mini golf. Like, scary competitive.”
Saint’s jaw ticks. “Get out of my restaurant.”
“Already leaving!” Noa calls over her shoulder, blowing Ivy a kiss before she heads for the door.
Ivy looks up from arranging her Barbies, and when she sees me really looking at her, she sets down the doll in her hand.
“Miss Wrenley,” she says quietly, “I missed you.”
The simplicity of it hits me harder than any elaborate explanation could. “I missed you too, Ivy.”
“Are you going to go away again?”
“Not if I can help it,” Saint says, using his protective expression on us both.
“Good.” She picks up one of her dolls again.
“And you know what?” I say to her. “You don’t have to call me Miss Wrenley anymore. Just Wrenley is fine.”
Her eyes go wide. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Just Wrenley.” She tests the name out, smiling with her entire face. “I like that better. I’m only allowed to call adults who are family without mister or missus.”
“I like that better, too.”
Saint goes very still, his fingers tightening around his water glass. When I meet his eyes, his expression is careful, but there’s a warmth there. He clears his throat and takes a drink, as if he’s trying not to show too much emotion but failing.
The first course arrives: small plates of seared scallops with pea puree, which makes Ivy scrunch her nose before asking for more.
Saint explains each dish as it comes, but I’m only half listening, distracted by the low rumble of his voice and the patient cadence he reserves just for his daughter.
I can’t believe that I’m sitting here. That I’m a part of this.
It’s like a dream, but I get to live it without filters, ring lights, or heavy editing.
I’m not thinking in captions or engagement metrics or how I’ll frame this moment for my audience.
I’m just here, present, drinking in the clatter of forks and the way Ivy dips her bread in sauce and how Saint’s attention lingers on me, like he can’t decide if he wants to devour the food or me first.
I’ll always love what I do, but there is something to be said about finding yourself outside of your online persona.
The truth is, I’ve always been good at performing.
Not in a fake way. If anything, I’ve built my whole following on being a little too honest and vulnerable.
But the idea of fitting into a room like this, where everything is tangible and unscripted, used to terrify me.
I never knew how to belong in a place unless I could crop out the awkward parts, mute the noise, or delete the whole experience if it got too uncomfortable.
Here, with Ivy’s voice pinging above everyone else’s in the room and Saint’s hand finding mine under the table and rubbing the inside of my wrist, I don’t want to edit anything out.
I want every minute, every awkward silence, every too loud laugh. I want to watch Ivy eat a bread roll in three bites and listen to Saint complain about the wine list even though he picked it himself.
I want the real version of this life, not the highlight reel.
Saint keeps catching me staring. The first few times, he just quirks an eyebrow, but eventually, he leans in and murmurs against my ear, “You’re making it very hard to focus on the food.”
I flush, which only makes him smirk.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I just?—”
“I know.” He bites his lower lip without breaking our stare, and I nearly soak the chair. “Same.”
Ivy, oblivious to the electrical currents passing between us, pipes up with, “Is it true that if you eat too much bread, you turn into a duck?”
Saint coughs and leans back .
I laugh. “I think if you eat enough bread, you’ll have to waddle home, which is almost the same thing.”
Ivy chews on her bread, then says, “Miss—I mean, Wrenley, do you like it here? Or are you just visiting?”
The words are so blunt and childlike that it takes me a second to realize what she’s really asking. Saint freezes, too, the fork paused halfway to his mouth.
I set my fork down. “I like it here. A lot.”
Ivy doesn’t seem satisfied with my answer. She keeps watching me. Waiting.
I shift in my chair, feeling the heat of Saint’s leg pressed against mine.
“I’m not going anywhere if you don’t want me to,” I amend.
She considers this, then says, “Papa says nobody stays forever.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Saint’s voice is gentle, but firm.
“You said nothing lasts. Even bread gets moldy.”
Saint closes his eyes, the regret obvious in the lines of his face.
“Some things last,” he says, opening them again, “if you take care of them.”
The next course arrives, and Ivy eats it with both hands, noodles smearing across her cheeks.
I watch her, and I watch Saint, and I realize I want this more than any brand deal or viral video or blue checkmark.
I want to sit at this table, in this restaurant, with these two, every single night until the world ends.
I lose track of how many times Saint’s hand finds my knee, or how many times Ivy brings the conversation back to whether I am coming over for breakfast tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again. She’s as subtle as a sledgehammer, but I don’t mind.
After dessert, which Ivy pronounces “illegal” in its deliciousness, she’s nearly asleep at the table, her head lolling.
We finish, and Saint scoops Ivy into his arms, her dolls tucked into the crook of his elbow. She’s half asleep, blinking in slow motion, content to rest her head on his shoulder while holding out her hand for me. I clasp onto it and follow as he weaves us through the tables.
In the kitchen, the staff see me and erupt into cheers and clapping, the kind of rowdy, unfiltered affection that would have horrified me before. But now, I just smile and duck my head, letting the sound of it soak in while Saint barks at them to shut up or get fired if they wake his daughter.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The air is sharp and clean, and the sky above the parking lot is bruised purple, the moon pressed like a thumbprint through the clouds.
Ivy is mostly asleep, but she’s holding on to my hand so tight that I have to walk at an awkward angle to keep pace with Saint’s long strides.
We don’t talk as we load Ivy into her car seat, Saint buckling her in while I brush the hair out of her eyes.
She stirs, blinking up at me.
“Don’t go away,” she mumbles, then drifts off again.
Saint catches my hand as we both straighten. “She’s not the only one who means that.”
He releases my hand only long enough to pull his key ring from his pocket. It’s heavy and battered, and he slides off a single brass key and holds it out to me, palm up.
I stare at it.
The town itself feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for me to interpret the gesture.
“My house has a heavy security system,” Saint says. “ Even if Ivy manages to dodge it every now and again. I think it’s time you had a way in, too.”
His joke is light, but there’s nothing casual about Saint handing over this key, not with Ivy’s sleep-slackened face glowing in the back seat, not with the memory of every time he’s ever shut a door between us.
I lift my gaze to his. “Are you sure?”
Saint’s mouth quirks, but there’s nothing sarcastic about the gesture. “I don’t give these out. You’re the only one.”
I take the key. It’s warm from his hand and heavier than it looks. My throat threatens to close, but I croak out, “I won’t lose it.”
He leans in, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my temple.
“If you do,” he murmurs, “I’ll give you another. And another. And another.”
“Saint.”
He leans back at my tone, studying my face.
“I need you to know something.” I shift my balance, finding my footing. “I choose this. I choose you.”
His expression shifts from concern to affection.
“Good,” he says simply. “Because I wasn’t planning on making it easy for you to leave again.”
“Is that a threat, Toussaint?”
“It’s a promise.”
He backs me against the car, and when his mouth swoops down, my lips are already parted for him.
Saint kisses like he cooks, with complete focus and zero apology for what he wants. His hands span my waist, holding me exactly where he needs me, and I arch into him because I’ve missed this, missed him taking what’s his.
A little squeak from inside the car makes us break apart, and I peek through the window to see Ivy blinking drowsily at us, a sleepy smile spreading across her face.
“Papa,” she mumbles, “are you kissing Just Wrenley?”
Saint’s laugh vibrates through his chest and into mine. “Yes, mon trésor . I am.”
We stay in each other’s arms, and I think about how this is what happily ever after actually looks like, quiet moments where love is found in the everyday spaces, where home is wherever the three of us are together.
“I love you, Wrenley.”
It’s the second time he’s said it, and it lands like a dream come true, like a vow, like the beginning of everything we’re going to build together.
“I love you, too, Saint.”
The declaration flows from me like it’s been waiting its entire life to find him.
“Both of you,” I add.
Saint smiles as he tilts my face up and our lips meet.
Welcome to your fresh start, Wren.
This time, I think I’ll stay for the whole thing.