Almost immediately, Simon sends another message on our private group chat:Can we all meet for drinks tonight? Need to talk.
I don’t reply yet, sliding my phone face down on the table.
“What’s that smile for?” Mom asks, eyeing me like a hawk.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly.
Dad snorts. “Rumors say otherwise.”
My fork stills mid-air. “Rumors?”
Mom and Dad exchange a look.
“You haven’t heard?” she asks carefully.
“Heard what?”
“That people are saying you’re seeing that new Omega. The one who opened the café.”
My chest tightens. “Wren?”
Dad shrugs. “Small town. Word gets around. People connect dots.”
Mom leans in, curious. “Is it true?”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “It’s complicated.”
“That sounds like a yes,” Dad mutters.
“Dad.”
He smirks, but his eyes are warm. “You’re at an age where complicated just means you don’t want to admit you’re in deep.”
I laugh. “I’m thirty-four, not fifty. I’ve got time.”
“You were wild as a kid,” he reminds me. “Always running, always chasing. Thought you’d never settle. But your mother and I—we met in high school. Decided on each other and never looked back.”
Mom smiles, the lines around her eyes deepening. “Love doesn’t wait for the perfect age, Levi. It just happens.”
I shake my head, chuckling. “Not everyone’s wired like that.”
“Maybe not.” Dad shrugs, spearing a potato. “But don’t be so sure it can’t happen to you.”
I don’t answer because the image of Wren’s green eyes won’t leave my head. The memory of her hair tangled in my fingers, her voice breaking on my name. She hasn’t texted once in a week, and now—now she asks us for help.
I make a show of taking a bite of my food. “Dinner’s good, Ma.”
She smiles knowingly but lets me change the subject.
After we eat, I help clear the table, washing dishes while my parents bicker about whether the faucet’s dripping more than usual.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Simon again, pressing about drinks.
I text back:Yeah. I’ll come by after I’m done here.
Because whatever this thing is with Wren—rumors, pop-ups, pack chats—it’s not going away. And I need to face it with them, together.
I dry the last plate, listening to my mom hum in the living room, my dad muttering about a leaky pipe. The house feels warm, steady, safe.
