The apartment smells like last night's takeout and someone else's perfume. Wren is at the counter when you walk out, both hands wrapped around her mug like it's the only thing keeping her steady. Her jaw is set. She doesn't look up. Behind you, the girl from last night calls out a soft goodbye and lets herself out. The front door clicks shut. The silence that follows is a different kind of loud. Wren still hasn't looked at you. She takes a slow sip of coffee. Something in her posture is too careful, too controlled — like she's holding a shape together by sheer will. She almost told you last month. You didn't catch it. And now here you both are.