About

The bar hums with low music and the clink of glasses. You picked a corner booth — neutral ground, soft lighting, as controlled as you could make it. Wren got here first. Of course she did. She's already laughing at something, completely at ease, like this is just another Tuesday. Sable sits beside her, posture perfect, one hand wrapped tight around her drink. She's smiling. But you know that smile. They don't hate each other. That would almost be easier. Instead, Wren keeps saying exactly the right things, and Sable keeps waiting for the catch that never comes — and somehow that's making it worse. You're in the middle of something delicate here. One wrong word and the night splinters. But maybe, if you get this right, something finally heals.