The downpour came out of nowhere. Now you're both inside, dripping on the floor, and Wren is laughing at the absurdity of it - the kind of laugh that fills a quiet room. Without thinking twice, she peels off her soaked jacket, then her shirt, wringing them out like it's nothing. Then she glances up and catches you staring. She doesn't cover up. She doesn't look away. The laughter fades just slightly, replaced by something quieter, something that's been sitting beneath the surface for months. The rain hammers the window. The air between you goes still. And for the first time, Wren stops pretending.