He’s mine too.
"...Bane."
"Hello, Wren."
He stops in front of her. He doesn't reach for a hug or a handshake—just looks at her, steady, his face open in a way I rarely get to see on him. He’s so handsome like this,open, strong, ready to face everyone in the kitchen if it means protecting my best friend and me.
"You look well," he says.
"...I am. Mostly." She tugs once at the hem of the navy dress. "The apartment helps."
"Good." A beat. "Reeves behaving herself?"
"Reeves," Wren says, "has decided I'm not allowed to skip therapy anymore. She drives me there herself. She sits in the waiting room like a bouncer. Last week I tried to tell her I had a headache and she just—lookedat me. Didn't even say anything. Just looked."
"Mm. That's the Reeves special. What I pay her the big bucks for."
"It's deeply unfair."
"Is it working?" Bane asks. "The… therapy?"
Wren is quiet for a second. Her thumb finds the hem of the navy dress and stops there.
"...yeah," she says, like the admission costs her something and she's decided to pay it anyway. "Don't tell Reeves, though. God, she'll be insufferable. But—yeah. It's helping. I hate that it's helping."
"I won't tell her." The corner of Bane's mouth moves. "She already knows."
Wren huffs the almost-laugh, and something in her shoulders comes down half an inch. She’s safe. She’s thriving. That’s all I wanted for her.
"Margot's in the kitchen plotting your destruction with three kinds of cheese," he says. "Come this way."
Wren follows him and I follow her, hiding the smile on my face. We head into the front parlor, where Zero is already waiting at the bar.
He's in a button-down.A button-down. The collar is open and the sleeves are rolled but he is wearing what is, by Zero'sstandards, formal wear, and he has clearly been instructed by Margot to make a drink for Wren the moment she walks in and is taking the assignment with theatrical seriousness.
"Wren." He swipes his hand in front of him as if welcoming her into his humble abode.
"...hi,” she mumbles.
"What do you drink?"
"uh...nothing strong."
"Something white. Bubbly. Cold. Easy to set down if you decide you hate it."
Wren looks at me as if for permission. I nod, so she relents. "...okay."
He pours her a small, careful glass of prosecco. He hands it to her with both hands, like he is presenting her with a small dog. She takes it, looks at me sideways, and presses her lips flat against a laugh that very nearly gets away from her.
"This is Zero," I say.
"I'd assumed."
"He's the middle brother."
"Yes." Zero grabs himself a beer. "I'm the disappointment."
"He's not the disappointment," I say.
