25. Wren
WREN
The porch light is already on when we reach the house, casting a golden warmth across the front lawn. Climbing the steps, the door is unlocked when Silas pushes it open before stepping aside to let me enter first.
Warmth hits me the moment I cross the threshold. The scent of garlic and something buttery fills the air, and a low bass hum of music plays from the kitchen. The last time I was here, I was coming undone—raw and unsteady, carrying the weight of years I could barely speak aloud.
Tonight, it’s different.
There’s the same coziness in the air, the same feeling of a chaotic house that is lived in, cherished, and enjoyed, with coats draped over the back of chairs, textbooks splayed open on the coffee table, and the TV playing on mute in the background.
But instead of dread pressing against my ribs, a strange sense of ease unfurls in my chest. As though my body remembers this place not as somewhere I broke… but as somewhere I was healed.
“Took you two long enough,” Lucian remarks without looking up from his phone when we enter the kitchen. He’s wearing gray joggers and a black T-shirt that fits just a little too well, sleeves stretched around his biceps.
I stop short, feeling my cheeks go hot before I can help it.
I glance wide-eyed in Silas’s direction.
Despite his quiet demeanor, his lips hitch in a slight smirk, and I swear there’s a swagger in his step that wasn’t there before.
He merely leans in and brushes a kiss to my temple, his hand sliding down to rest on the small of my back for a beat before he moves past me to help Ronan plate up the food.
Of course, Lucian chooses that moment to look up. His eyes flick between Silas and me before they settle on mine. Something satisfied and predatory flashes in his eyes as a slow, knowing grin curls his lips.
My blush deepens.
“Hi,” I say lamely.
“Get lots of studying done?” he asks, a hint of a tease in his tone. Pushing back his chair, he stands and moves toward me. He watches me like a cat watches a mouse.
“Lots, actually.” I hold my chin high, refusing to be embarrassed.
He holds my gaze for a beat before his lips quirk in a smile. “Good.” In a lower voice, he adds, “When I finally get my mouth on you again, I won’t stop at your lips.”
And now I know my face is flaming red.
“You’re not jealous?” I ask curiously, watching his expression closely.
“Jealous? You bet your ass I am.” He glances in Silas’s direction. “But I also know he needs you as much as I do. They both do.”
“Have a seat,” Ronan calls, oblivious to the scorching heat burning a path through my body. “Dinner’s ready.”
“It smells delicious,” I say, voice not quite my own as I step around Lucian, careful to ensure I don’t brush against him.
I don’t trust myself not to self-combust if I do, or for him to be able to contain himself.
I’d half-expect him to grab me and throw me down on the table and devour me right there and then in front of Ronan and Silas.
And in my current state, I’d be completely okay with that.
“Lucian, make yourself useful for once and grab cutlery,” Ronan chastises as he carries plates toward the table.
Lucian snorts. Snatching a nearby dish towel, he rolls it into a rope and cracks it through the air with a sharp snap that makes me jump. It hits Ronan square across the ass.
He lets out a yelp that’s too high-pitched to be anything but real. “Jesus, Lucian!” The plates in his hand nearly go flying, the pasta on them slopping dangerously.
“That’s for suggesting I’m not useful,” Lucian taunts.
I cover my mouth, trying to hide the snort that escapes. Ronan shoots me a betrayed look, which only makes me laugh harder.
Hurriedly setting the plates on the table, he sends a death glare in Lucian’s direction. “I’m going to murder you,” he threatens in a growl, which only makes my shoulders shake harder.
“I’m right here,” Lucian coaxes, spreading his arms wide and smirking daringly at Ronan. “Come get me.”
Ronan snarls savagely at him, before turning his back, dismissing him altogether, and fixing me with that incensed stare of his instead. Sucking in a deep breath, he blows it out, slow and steady, like it’s something he does a hundred times a day to stop himself from ripping Lucian’s head off.
My lips twitch at that.
He tilts his head slightly, gaze raking over me like hot coals, before offering me a lopsided smile that’s all Ronan—warm, boyish, just shy of cocky.
“Glad you’re here,” he murmurs.
Three little words. It’s not some grand gesture, but they land as though he were holding a boombox outside my window.
Pulling out the nearest chair, he gestures for me to sit.
Silas carries drinks to the table while Lucian grabs silverware with a dramatic sigh, muttering under his breath about being underappreciated.
Ronan hands out plates, his hand brushing mine for a fraction of a second longer than necessary as he passes it over.
We settle in at the kitchen table, a warm plate of buttery pasta and golden garlic bread in front of me.
The conversation is easy. Fast. Fluid. They bicker and tease like brothers, but with none of the underlying tension I’d expected.
And they pull me into it effortlessly. Every time I think they might move on without me, one of them tosses a comment my way, or nudges my elbow, or rolls their eyes at me when one of the others does something ridiculous.
It’s like I’ve been slotted into place without anyone making a big deal about it. Like I belong here, no permission needed. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been craving this exact thing: a seat at the table. Laughter that includes me. Eyes that see me.
Silas steals garlic bread off Lucian’s plate, who swears loudly before threatening to drown him in the sink, and when he reaches for Ronan’s plate to steal his instead, Ronan slaps his hand away without even looking. Like it’s a nightly occurrence.
It’s a level of comfort born only from habit.
Which leads me to ask, “How long have the three of you known each other?”
“Lucian and I were in Mini-Mites together,” Ronan explains. “Then we met Silas when we moved up to Squirts when we were ten.”
“That long?” I glance between them, trying to picture it. They played too well as a team to have only met in college, but I’d assumed they had met in high school. I never would have guessed they went so far back. “You’ve basically grown up together.”
Ronan huffs a laugh. “Unfortunately.”
Lucian scoffs. “You were a tiny dictator,” he accuses. “Bossing around six-year-olds like you were coaching the Stanley Cup Final.”
“It’s called natural leadership,” Ronan quips.
Lucian rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize natural-born leaders cry when they lose a game.”
“I was six!” Ronan cries in outrage. “And admittedly accustomed to getting my own way at that age.”
I grin, turning to Lucian. “I bet you were a little hellion.”
Lucian smirks, as though proud of that descriptor.
“Damn right I was.”
Silas scoffs, writing in his notebook for all of us to see.
He still is.
“Didn’t you bite a kid once?” Ronan asks him.
“You bit a kid?!” I gape at Lucian. “Why am I not surprised?”
Lucian points an accusing finger at Ronan. “Hey, Peter Vencro had it coming. He’s lucky I only bit him.”
“Such an animal,” I tease.
“What can I say, predators start young.” Lucian winks at me, the act strangely provocative.
Heat unfurls low in my stomach as vivid images of him sinking his teeth into me flash through my mind.
And I have to say, I don’t mind the idea of being bitten by Lucian Caulfield.
No, I don’t mind the idea of that one little bit.
Shaking my head, I look Silas’s way. “What about you?”
Lucian smirks, nudging his friend in the shoulder. “This one showed up one day, skated circles around everyone and stared at us like we were wasting his time.”
Silas doesn’t deny it. Just writes something in his notebook and flips it around.
What’s changed?
I laugh, looking between the three of them. “So you three just…clicked?”
Ronan and Lucian share a look filled with history, both good and not-so-good.
“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he hedges. “Lucian and I might have been on the same team, but I couldn’t stand him back then.”
“You couldn’t stand me?” Lucian retorts with a look of complete shock, as though this is the first time he is hearing this. “I couldn’t stand you! You had such a stick up your ass about everything.”
“And you were a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
Throwing his hands up, Lucian counters, “What six-year-old even thinks like that?!”
Rolling his eyes and refusing to engage, Ronan directs his attention to me. “He might have been a wild card, but on the ice, it worked. He was chaos. I was structure.” He points his thumb toward Silas. “Then this one came in and gave us something neither of us had. Balance.”
Nodding, Lucian concludes, “He made us what we are today.”
Silas flips open his notebook, writes for a moment, then turns it toward us.
Brothers. Whether we liked it or not.
After dinner, while dishes are being half-heartedly rinsed, Lucian emerges from the hall closet holding a box. He slaps it down on the coffee table with a grin that’s all teeth.
“No way,” Ronan says, instantly suspicious.
Lucian just arches a brow. “Yes way.”
“What is it?” I ask, approaching the table to get a closer look at the box.
“Physical contact torture disguised as a game,” Ronan mutters.
“Twister?” I question, reading the logo.
“Wren wants to play Twister, don’t you, Little Moth?” Lucian asks, eyes dancing.
“Don’t respond, Wren,” Ronan blurts with a stern shake of his head. “You’ll only encourage him.”
I chuckle. “I don’t know if I want to. I’ve never played before.”
Lucian’s eyes go wide as saucers. “You’ve never played Twister?!” His gaze snaps to Ronan, a vicious grin flashing across his face. “Oh, well, now we have to play.”
Ronan groans, hanging his head, recognizing a losing battle when he sees one.
“Fine.” He sighs in defeat. “Silas, you in?”