The lamp throws a warm amber glow across the room. A wool blanket is half-pulled over the couch, two mugs sit cooling on the coffee table, and the thick rug beneath your feet is practically begging to be shuffled across. Wren got here an hour ago looking like she'd been wrung out and hung to dry. She didn't say much — just kicked off her shoes and folded herself into your arms like she belonged there. Which she does. Now her breathing is slow, her cheek is pressed against your chest, and her eyes are closed. She trusts you completely. And you are very, very quietly dragging your sock-covered feet back and forth across that rug.