Page 78 of Top Shelf

More than that, Ineedto hear her rasp it against my throat in the dark while she’s tangled in the sheets—bowed, breathless, and completely ruined.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” she continues, unaware of the rabbit hole my thoughts have fallen down. Her voice softens, barely loud enough over the music. “You always stay on the edge of the locker room. Never talk or engage with the other guys on the team. You keep your gear in perfect order and lace your gloves the exact same way, and you always double-knot your skates.”

She shrugs, but there’s nothing casual in her voice.

“On campus, you keep your hood up even when it’s sunny. I never see you walking with anyone other than Ronan or Lucian. They’re the only ones I ever see you communicating with, too, and even then, it’s like… You exist beside them, not with them. Like you’re part of something, but always slightly removed from it.” Her head cocks, her astute gaze boring into me before she slays me with how clearly she sees me. “It’s like you’d rather disappear than be seen.”

Not realizing how hard-hitting her words are, she flicks her gaze to my notebook, sitting open on the bar top between us.

“And yet, you listen better than most people speak. And I know hanging out in a bar isn’t your scene, because every time you walk in here, your shoulders are up near your ears. You scan the room like you’re bracing for something, and you only ever settle once you’ve tucked yourself into a corner, like that little bit of distance makes it all bearable.”

Wren meets my eyes, steady now.

“So yeah. I’ve been watching, too.”

Tapping her navy blue nails against the bar top, she pushes off, moving to serve a customer at the other end of the bar and leaving me to stew in her words.

She’s right, of course. About all of it. The corner of the locker room. The skates. The gloves. The hood. The fact that Ronan and Lucian are the only people I ever let get close enough to touch the silence without trying to fix it.

She noticed.

And somehow, that wrecks me more than it should, because no one has ever cared to look that closely before. Hell, growing up, no one ever cared enough to even make sure I had clean clothes and food to eat, never mind the tiny details Wren has tucked away.

By the time Wren circles back, the bar has thinned a little. Her eyes cut toward me without a word as she wipes down the counter. I push my notebook toward her, and her gaze meets mine before dropping to the words I’ve written for her.

Maybe I want you to see me.

Her throat bobs as she swallows, her eyes lingering on the page longer than necessary before she raises them. Her voice is soft, cautious even, when she asks, “Why? Why me?”

I flip the page, gripping the pen tighter than I should. Then I write?—

Because when I look at you, I see someone who looks the way I feel. Like you’re holding yourself together with duct tape and superglue. Like the world asks too much and gives too little.

And for once, it doesn’t feel like I’m the only one bleeding underneath it all.

That gives her pause.

Something raw flickers in her eyes, and she runs her fingers over the note like it’s a wound she wasn’t expecting—one that matches something inside her. Then her cheeks go pink. Just a soft flush that creeps up like heat under the skin. She tries to hide it behind a sip of water, but I already filed it away to ruminate over later.

Wren Winslow blushes when something hits too close to home. When the truth finds its way past her walls. Just like how she tugs her ear when she’s thinking, or plays with her hands when she’s nervous, or bites her lip when she’s lying.

I’ve never met anyone so easy to read yet so hard to predict.

Slowly, as though unsure, her gaze lifts to meet mine. There’s a war going on behind those eyes. One, I suspect she’s been fighting for a long time but has become ever more present since setting foot in Valehurst.

“Why does it feel like the three of you are bleeding in the same places I am?”

Her voice is low. Measured. But her fingers curl slightly on the bar top.

She’s not accusing; she’sasking. Inviting me to confirm what she already knows in her bones.

I hold her stare, the silence stretching just long enough for the truth to settle. I don’t know what the others have confided in her, but I know there’s a reason all three of us are drawn to her. Perhaps initially, it was because we were just relieved she was okay after finding her that night. Maybe it was about getting our questions answered as to what happened. But now? Now, I understand there is a string pulling all four of us together. One entwined in pain and trauma. Not just hers, and not just mine.

All four of us have our demons. We have our issues, our hang-ups. What binds us is recognizing that same pain in one another. We’re drawn to it like moths to a flame, strung along by that desire to have someone else understand exactly how we feel. To not feel alone.

Picking up my pen, I write a single line.

Because we are.