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He doesn’t let me go. He wraps me in his arms like I’m something fragile, something worth protecting, and for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.

20

SEAN

Iwake to the weight of warmth pressed into his side. Wren. She’s curled into me, her head resting just over my heart, one arm draped over my ribs, her breaths slow and even. I don’t move, relishing the moment. The living room is quiet, washed in early morning light filtering through the blinds.

We must’ve fallen asleep like this after talking for hours last night. We didn’t discuss heavy subjects. Just the kind of nothing that changes everything. I asked her about her pinterest board calledIf I Had a Farm. I once saw the board on her laptop. She joked that in another life, she’d be a farmer.

I told her I’ve read East of Eden seventeen times and she teased me about it. We drifted off like that, tangled together on the couch.

I stare at Wren, at the rise and fall of her chest. This moment feels too fragile, too perfect, like it’ll vanish if I shift the wrong way.

Then I hear soft footsteps. Small ones.

I turn my head just enough to see Eric coming down the stairs, that worn-out triceratops tucked under one arm. His curls are a mess. He blinks at us, bleary-eyed, then toddles over likeit’s the most normal thing in the world to find me wrapped around his mom.

“Morning,” he stage-whispers, loud in that way only kids manage. “Is Mommy sleeping?”

I nod and press a finger to my lips.

He nods back like a soldier receiving orders, then climbs right up into my lap and wedges himself between me and the back of the couch. No hesitation. My throat tightens as I shift just enough to make room for him. He’s warm and small and solid. It hit me now. A hard, sharp and terrifying realization slam into me. I want this. I want all of it.

This quiet, intimate moment. Waking up beside Wren. Holding her son like my own.

“Can we have waffles?” Eric whispers, eyes hopeful.

I smile. “Sure, buddy. Let’s let your mom sleep a little longer, yeah?”

He snuggles into my side, clutching his dinosaur like it’s battle gear. Wren breathes against my chest, and just like that, I can see the whole damn picture. Mornings like this. Laughing in the kitchen. Sunday pancakes and bedtime stories and not waking up alone.

I close my eyes for a second, but I already know the truth. None of it matters unless she wants it too. And that’s the part I don’t have control over.

Later that morning, I meet Marcus at the gym. He’s already stretching when I walk in, smirking like he’s been waiting all morning to run his mouth.

“Well, well, look who it is,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Our favourite Silver Fox.”

“Don’t start.”

He laughs. “You’re a regular tabloid darling now. I don't know if the algorithm knows that you're my boss but I get all updates about you and Wren’s relationship. I think it’s safeto say I’m a Wrenan stan. And you should know that your ‘smoldering protective gaze’ is a fan favorite.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter and start wrapping my hands.

“It’s all your fault for staring at her likethat. I’ve never seen that smitten look on your face before.”

I ignore him, wrapping my hands before stepping up to the heavy bag. I throw a clean one-two. The rhythm helps, but not enough.

“No use fighting it, man. You’re in it. The people have spoken.” He watches me. “But I gotta ask… are you two still pretending? Because this picture—” he flips the phone again to a shot of Wren looking up at me like I’m really the man she loves—“doesn’t look fake to me.”

I focus on taping my wrist. “I don’t know, Marcus. I can’t tell anymore.”

“You two look at each other like that and still don’t know?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Sounds like what people say when they’re drowning but don’t want to admit it.”

I fire off another combo, harder. He steadies the bag. Marcus and I go way back—fifteen years of field ops, high-profile clients, near-death situations. He sees right through me.