Scene Thirteen The Question He Doesn’t Want to Answer
Kade didn’t get off the bike right away. He sat there, hands on the handlebars, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the empty lot like he was listening to something she couldn’t hear.
Wren stood a few feet away, her breath still uneven from the run, her pulse still tight from the man on the red bike. The quiet between them felt heavier now — not empty, not awkward, not cold.
Loaded.
She swallowed. “Kade… what’s going on?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t soften. He didn’t pretend he didn’t hear.
He finally exhaled, slow and controlled, like he was deciding how much truth he could give her without breaking something he wasn’t ready to break.
“You shouldn’t have been alone this morning,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Wren stepped closer, her voice steadier than she felt. “You stayed last night. You came back this morning. You followed me. You told me not to walk anywhere alone. You told me the dark doesn’t care about daylight. And now you’re telling me I shouldn’t have been alone.”
Kade’s jaw tightened — a small movement, but sharp enough to feel like a warning.
“So, I’m asking again,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Why?”
He finally looked at her.
Not in a soft way. Not in a vulnerable way. In a way that made her feel seen in a way she wasn’t ready for.
“Because something noticed you,” he said.
Her breath caught. “Last night?”
His eyes didn’t move. “Before last night.”
Wren’s stomach dropped. “What does that mean?”
Kade didn’t answer.
He didn’t look away. He didn’t retreat. He didn’t hide behind silence.
He just watched her — steady, unflinching, dangerous in the way someone becomes when they’re trying not to say something that matters.
“Kade,” she whispered, “why did you stay?”
His expression shifted — barely. A flicker. A fracture.
He looked away, jaw tight, shoulders tense.
“I didn’t stay for you,” he said.
She swallowed. “You said that last night.”
“And it’s still true.”
“Then why?”
He didn’t answer.
The quiet stretched between them — not empty, not cold, not distant.
Charged.
He finally said, voice low, steady, almost too quiet:
“I stayed because I didn’t trust what was out there.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He didn’t deny it.
Wren stepped closer, her voice barely above a breath. “Kade… what did you see?”
His eyes flicked to hers — sharp, warning, almost pleading.
“Don’t ask me that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not ready for the answer.”
Her pulse slammed.
He looked away again, shoulders tight, breath controlled.
“And I’m not ready to give it.”
The words landed between them like a confession he didn’t mean to make.
Wren stared at him, chest tight, breath shallow.
And she realized something she shouldn’t have:
He wasn’t protecting her from the dark. He was protecting her from the truth.