And maybe, just maybe, that thought terrifies me more than it thrills me.
The darts keep flying in the background, laughter bubbling up at other tables, the waitress dropping off another round. From the outside, it looks like any other night: three men, a booth, a few drinks.
But inside, something shifts. Quiet. Heavy. Binding.
The kind of thing you don’t walk away from.
The kind of thing that feels like the start of something you can’t stop, even if you tried.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Simon
The ringtone jarsme out of sleep.
I fumble for the phone on my nightstand, glasses still off, the blur of digits glowing far too bright for this early. My throat’s dry, my muscles heavy—I only just got in after my shift, and I’d promised myself a few hours of uninterrupted rest.
But when I swipe the screen and see her name, everything inside me jolts awake.
“Wren?” My voice is hoarse, betraying sleep.
There’s a pause, then her soft voice: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s fine.” I sit up, push my glasses on. The room sharpens. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just… I called Beau and Levi, too. They’re on their way.”
That wakes me more than any alarm ever could. “They are?”
“Yeah. I, um…” A little exhale, like she’s embarrassed. “I need help moving some things. For the pop-up. From my place to Norah’s shop.”
The weight pressing on my chest eases. Not an emergency. Not blood. Not heat. Just… life. Ordinary, mundane life.
I find myself smiling, despite the exhaustion dragging at my body. “Alright,” I tell her. “I’ll be there.”
By the time I pull onto the street, Beau’s car is already parked crookedly at the curb, Levi’s SUV tucked neatly behind.
They’re outside, waiting, and the moment I step out, Wren pushes through the front door carrying a stack of folded tablecloths.
And just like that, I forget I’m tired.
She’s dressed in a soft blue dress that buttons down the front, belted at her waist, the skirt brushing just above her knees. She’s paired it with white sneakers, practical for hauling boxes, and her hair is loose today, tumbling over her shoulders in a way that looks both deliberate and effortless.
There’s flour smudged faintly on her cheek—a sure sign she’s been baking since dawn—and a brightness in her eyes that pulls me like a tide.
“Morning,” she calls, a little breathless, cheeks pink.
“Morning,” I answer, but it comes out a bit rough.
Beau grins, ever the showman. “You look cute, cupcake.”
Wren rolls her eyes, but the blush deepens. “You’re here to carry things, not to comment on my outfit.”
Levi chuckles, heading for the door. “Tell us what needs moving.”
Inside, it’s controlled chaos. Stacks of pastry boxes, trays of cookies wrapped in cellophane, a few chalkboard signs she’s scrawled with neat, looping handwriting.
The smell alone is enough to make my stomach growl—warm sugar, cinnamon, a hint of coffee.
