Later That Night
I don’t sleep.
I lie on my back in the dark safehouse bedroom, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet town outside.
Montana doesn’t know it’s in danger yet.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the same thing.
A file.
A timestamp.
Fourteen minutes.
Fourteen minutes that destroyed two lives.
I scrub a hand over my face.
A door opens across the hall.
Soft footsteps.
The knock is hesitant.
“Yeah,” I say.
I’m already sitting up.
She stands in the doorway wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders.
No armor.
No distance.
Just Wren.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” she says.
“Figures.”
She hesitates.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
And I mean more than the word.
The room feels different when she enters.
Smaller.
Fuller.
Like something missing just came back.
We stand there awkwardly, two people who once knew each other better than anyone alive.
“You okay?” she asks.
I almost laugh.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I think I’m better than I was this morning.”
“I’m sorry you found out like that.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I don’t think I would have understood it any other way.”
I sit on the edge of the bed.
“I keep replaying that night,” I continue. “The things I said.”
“You were hurt.”
“I was wrong.”
Her eyes soften.
“I didn’t lose you because you didn’t trust me,” I say.
“I lost you because you trusted me more than the system.”
Her expression breaks just a little.
“I never wanted you to carry that.”
“You did,” I say quietly. “So I wouldn’t have to.”
She sits in the chair across from me.
“I thought if I didn’t explain, it would hurt less.”
“You’ve always been terrible at judging what hurts me.”
A faint smile flickers.
Then fades.
“I don’t know what we are now,” she says.
“I know what we’re not.”
She waits.
“We’re not enemies.”
A pause.
“We’re not broken.”
Another pause.
“And we’re not pretending this didn’t matter.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“I already have.”
The words surprise both of us.
“It took years,” I admit.
“But I don’t want to waste any more time being careful with the wrong things.”
She studies me.
“You’re not rushing me,” she says softly.
“You’re here.”
I reach out.
Stop.
Look at her.
She nods.
I take her hand.
It feels like coming home to a place I thought I wasn’t allowed to want anymore.
We rest our foreheads together.
We don’t kiss.
Not yet.
We just breathe.
“Stay,” I say quietly.
“Okay.”
She sits beside me.
I wrap an arm around her.
For the first time in a long time—
the dark doesn’t feel so heavy.