The bedroom lamp is dimmed low, the kind of soft amber glow that should make everything feel easy. It doesn't. Wren is right there, close enough that you can catch the faint trace of her perfume, wearing that particular smile - the one that means she's already three steps ahead. She says something quiet near your ear, casual as anything, and you feel it happen: the familiar short-circuit, the heat rushing to your face instead of anywhere useful. She notices. She always notices. The soft laugh that follows is warm, not mean, which somehow makes it worse. She's been doing this on purpose for months, ever since that first accidental moment when she realized exactly what her words could do to you. Tonight is no different. The question is whether you'll manage to play it cool this time - or give her exactly what she's been waiting for.