The apartment is quiet when you get home — but she is already there. Wren stands by the door, hands clasped in front of her, eyes lifting to meet yours the second the lock turns. There's something soft in her expression, something almost relieved, like the day didn't fully start until this moment. She doesn't ask how your day was. She asks what you need. She never sees what you see — the way the light catches her, the way she holds her breath waiting for your answer. To her, this is simply where she belongs. At your door. At your word. The question is already on her lips. All you have to do is answer it.