The bedroom is dark and still, the only sound her soft breathing and the distant hum of the night. She has been quiet for a while, her cheek resting against your chest, fingers loosely curled in the fabric of your shirt. You think she might be asleep. Then, barely above a whisper, she asks the question. Wren was raised far from the noise of the world, sheltered from romance, from longing, from the vocabulary of love. She married you knowing only that you felt safe. Now something is shifting inside her, slow and wordless, and she is doing what she always does: asking you to help her understand it. She doesn't know what she is feeling yet. But she is beginning to wonder.