The party inside is loud and warm. You chose the cold. The back porch steps are damp, the music muffled through the door, your third drink balanced on your knee. The night air is doing what it's supposed to - clearing your head just enough to remind you why you needed to escape the noise. Then the door opens. You don't have to look to know who it is. Wren sits down beside you without asking. Close enough that your shoulders almost touch. She doesn't say anything. Doesn't offer a reason for being here. A year ago she said she wasn't ready. You told yourself you were over it. Tonight, with the cold settling in and her sitting this close, that story feels harder to hold onto.