Page 23 of Push My Buttons

I stand, turning to find the shift manager still glued to the TV. The news has shifted to showing photos of Lucien Cain's victims, their faces blurred but the horror still evident.

"Hey," I say, tapping Marcus on the shoulder. He jumps, startled.

"What the—you can't be back here," he snaps.

"Wren isn't feeling well," I say, keeping my voice casual despite the tension coiling in my gut. "She needs to take a break."

Marcus frowns, glancing around as if just realizing his barista is huddled on the floor having a panic attack. "What's wrong with her?"

"Migraine," I lie smoothly. "Bad one. She asked if she could take five minutes in the back room."

He sighs dramatically. "Fine. But who's going to make the drinks? I've got inventory to finish."

"I think you'll survive making your own coffee for a few minutes," I say, my tone sharper than intended.

Marcus mutters something under his breath about "entitled millennials" and "having to do everything myself," but he moves toward the espresso machine, purposely avoiding looking at Wren.

I turn back to her, crouching down again. "He said you can take a break. Do you want help getting to the back room?"

She shakes her head, then signs,"Thank you."

"No problem,"I sign back."Take whatever time you need."

She pulls herself up slowly, using the wall for support. Her legs are still shaky, but she manages to stand. As she passes me, her fingers brush against my arm—the briefest touch, but deliberate. A thank you that goes beyond words or signs.

I watch her disappear into the back room, my mind racing. The news about Lucien Cain. Her extreme reaction. The pieces begin to click together in a pattern I don't want to see.

Her silence. Her vigilance. The way she flinches at sudden movements. How she always positions herself with her back to a wall, eyes on the exits.

And now, a complete breakdown at the mention of a serial killer's capture.

My stomach drops as the truth crystallizes. It's not just coincidence. It's connection.

Wren knows Lucien Cain. Personally.

The thought sends a protective surge through me so intense it's almost dizzying. Silence—my teammate, my sniper—isn't just a random barista with anxiety. She's someone carrying a burden heavier than I could have imagined.

I make my way back to the customer side of the counter, where Marcus is grudgingly preparing my coffee, still grumbling about having to do "everyone else's job."

"Here," he says, shoving the cup toward me with none of the care Wren usually shows. "Anything else?"

"No," I say, then add, "Thanks for letting her take a break. Migraines can be debilitating."

He grunts noncommittally, already turning back to the TV where they're showing footage of police searching what appears to be Cain's hideout.

I take my coffee and find a seat near the back of the café, positioning myself with a clear view of the door to the break room. I'm not leaving until I know she's okay. I pull out mylaptop, pretending to work while my mind processes everything I've just learned.

Wren is Silence. Wren has a connection to Lucien Cain. Wren needs protection, whether she knows it or not.

And I, apparently, am now her self-appointed guardian.

The realization should terrify me. I don't do emotional entanglements. I don't rush to anyone's rescue. I code. I game. I maintain careful distance from the messy complexities of human interaction.

Yet here I am, unable to leave, unable to focus on anything except the door she disappeared behind, waiting for her to emerge.

Because somewhere between raiding virtual wastelands and watching her make my coffee every morning, she's become important to me. More important than routines or comfort zones or carefully maintained boundaries.

I take a sip of my coffee, grimacing at the bitter, over-extracted flavor. Marcus clearly has no idea what he's doing.