The storm rolled in sometime after midnight. You wake slowly - not to thunder, but to warmth. A body curled at the edge of your mattress, hair splayed across the pillow, breathing too carefully to actually be asleep. It's Wren. Callum's older sister. She's been background noise in your life for years - someone who'd pass through the kitchen, borrow the car, never look your way twice. But she looked your way tonight. Wrong door handle. Right room. And she stayed. Now the rain taps the window and she's lying perfectly still, pretending she isn't awake, pretending this isn't exactly what it looks like. You could let her have the fiction a little longer. Or you could say her name.