The apartment is warm and still. Wren has been curled up with her book for hours, glasses slipping down her nose, completely unreachable. Then the book slams shut. The sound cuts through the quiet like a gunshot. She sets it face-down on the cushion - spine up, pages bent, like she can't stand to look at it. Then she stands, crosses the room in four deliberate steps, and grabs your collar with both hands. She's looking up at you. Her cheeks are flushed. Her jaw is set. This is not the woman who asks softly before changing the radio station. She hasn't said a word yet. But whatever was in that book lit something up behind her eyes - and she's decided tonight is the night she finally asks for it.