7:32 AM
Wren Hubbard stirred in her bed, the shrill sound of the alarm clock piercing through the small apartment like a banshee’s wail. She groaned, her arm flailing out from under the covers, searching for the source of the offensive noise. Her fingers found the clock, fumbling for a moment before smashing down on the snooze button with force.
Silence descended once more, broken by the faint hum of traffic outside and the distant whistle of a train. Wren buried her face back into the pillow, inhaling the scent of lavender fabric softener and last night’s hair product.
The room remained dimly lit, morning sunlight creeping in through the gaps in the blinds like an unwelcome intruder. Dust motes danced in the pale beams, swirling with each of Wren’s exhales.
“Five more minutes,” she mumbled into the pillow, her voice muffled and thick with sleep.
Her legs tangled in the sheets as she shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. The coolness of the fabric against her skin sent a shiver down her spine, goosebumps rising on her arms.
A car horn blared outside, followed by the angry shouts of pedestrians. Wren’s eyes cracked open, revealing a sliver of striking violet. She glared at the window, as if her gaze alone could silence the world beyond.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” she chanted, pulling the pillow over her head.
The alarm clock, unimpressed by her attempts at further slumber, began its infernal racket once more. Wren’s arm shot out from under the pillow, her hand connecting with the clock and sending it flying across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack, bits of plastic scattering across the hardwood floor.
“Fuck,” Wren groaned, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Her short black mohawk stood at odd angles, the purple dye faded and in desperate need of a touch-up.
Wren stretched her arms above her head, her joints popping and muscles tensing. She rolled her neck, feeling the satisfying crack as tension released. Her body hummed with renewed energy, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep.
With some effort (and significantly more reluctance), she swung her legs over the side of the bed until they met the cold hardwood floor. Another shiver ran through her body as she sat there for a moment gathering momentum—or pretending to gather momentum—to stand up fully.
Eventually, she wandered over to the window and yanked open the blinds with all the delicacy of an irritable toddler demanding snacks. Sunlight flooded into the room instantly, making her wince and squint against its sudden brightness. Outside lay what always lay outside: a sprawling mess of concrete structures buzzing with human activity even at this ungodly hour.
She glanced back over her shoulder at what used to be an alarm clock before sighing dramatically and nudging a stray piece of plastic casing with her toe. “Rest in pieces,” she said flatly. “You earned it.”
Just then, a familiar sound interrupted her morning routine—or lack thereof—the distant wail of sirens weaving their way through traffic down below. She paused mid-thought (or mid-non-thought), tilting her head toward the noise like a dog hearing its owner’s car pull into the driveway.
A slow smile spread across Wren’s face—mischief flickering behind tired eyes that weren’t quite awake but were clearly intrigued all the same.
“Well,” she said softly, stretching both arms overhead until something popped satisfactorily in her shoulder joint. “If that doesn’t scream ‘get up,’ I don’t know what does.”
She rolled her neck next—another pop—and let out a deep breath between pursed lips as energy began creeping back into dormant muscles despite herself. Groggy or not, there was just something about sirens that called to Wren in ways coffee never could.
And so began another day in Wren Hubbard’s life: chaotic by necessity but propelled forward by curiosity—and maybe just a little bit of spite against anything resembling an alarm clock ever again.
Wren stood barefoot on the cold hardwood floor and wiggled her toes against its smooth surface. The simple act triggered a memory, vivid and unasked for—the kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
She lifted her right foot and propped it on the kitchen chair, studying her toes, flexing them rhythmically. To most, it would have been an unremarkable movement, something barely worth noticing. But for Wren, those small motions carried weight.
Her mind drifted back to a hospital room—the sharp tang of antiseptic in the air, the kind of smell that lingered too long in your nose. She’d been five years old, swallowed up by a bed far too big for her tiny body. Her right leg had been encased in a clunky white cast, stiff and immovable. The faces around her were blurred now, faded by time, but she could still hear the syrupy voice of a nurse bending down over her.
“Let’s see if you can wiggle those toes for me, sweetheart.”
Little Wren had furrowed her brow like it was the most important job she’d ever been assigned. She’d stared hard at her toes sticking out of the end of the cast—stared so long that the room seemed to hold its collective breath. At first, nothing happened. Her foot stayed still, stubbornly disobedient. Then there it was—a twitch. Small and shaky but real. Slowly and with great effort, her toes began to wiggle, jerking awkwardly back and forth.
The room lit up with cheers that were too loud for the small space. Doctors smiled at one another; nurses beamed as though she’d done something miraculous. They clapped; they encouraged; they praised with easy dexterity. In Wren’s memory—or maybe just in the version she’d pieced together later—her parents had been there too, smiling wide with relief. It wasn’t much of a victory in hindsight, but at the time, it had felt enormous.
Back in her apartment now, Wren smiled faintly as she wiggled her toes again—not because they needed coaxing anymore but because they could. She knew better than to believe her own memories entirely—she’d filled in gaps over the years: painted warmer smiles onto faces that weren’t there at all; imagined applause from people who had been noticeably absent. Her parents hadn’t stood by her bedside during those small victories—they’d left her in someone else’s care without much ceremony or fuss because they had other things to tend to: jobs, siblings—they always had an excuse lined up neatly like dominos waiting to fall.
Still, she wiggled her toes once more—just because she could—and marveled at how something so ordinary could once have felt impossible. If nothing else, it reminded her just how far she’d come since then.
She crossed the room slowly on bare feet that left faint imprints on battered wood with every step. When she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror leaning precariously against the wall, she paused longer than usual to take herself in.
A worn band t-shirt hung loosely from her frame—the logo faded to near obscurity after years of wear—but it still clung stubbornly to life despite its age. Boxer shorts slung low across her hips revealed not just hints of toned muscle but also snippets of ink peeking out beneath fabric edges—a tattoo half-hidden but deliberate all the same. She ran a hand through her mohawk as though smoothing it might make sense of its jagged angles or its defiant purple streaks—though admittedly “sense” wasn’t what she’d been aiming for when she dyed it that color anyway.
Her violet eyes stared back from beneath heavy lids still weighted by sleep while sunlight caught on a nose ring glinting faintly—a small rebellion against… well… everything really.
When Wren turned back toward the bed behind her, something softened within her—not much but enough to notice. Maggie was still sleeping soundly under their shared duvet; strands of chestnut hair spilled across the pillow like loose threads on a halo gone askew. Each rise and fall of Maggie’s breathing made subtle waves through the blanket covering them both—a rhythm so steady yet delicate that Wren found herself holding still just to match it unconsciously.
She sat carefully on the edge of the mattress where springs groaned softly beneath even light pressure—it was familiar now though: part annoyance and part comfort depending on mood or moment—and let her hand trail idly over rumpled sheets cool to touch despite Maggie’s warmth beneath them somewhere close enough to reach but far enough not quite touching yet.
Wren’s eyes traced the familiar contours of their bedroom, a landscape of organized chaos. Maggie’s cycling gear hung neatly on hooks by the door, each item meticulously placed as though part of a display in a museum of order. Wren’s gear, on the other hand, had declared war against the concept of neatness, collapsing in an unruly heap on the floor as if staging its own rebellion. The bookshelves were overcrowded and unapologetic about it, their spines jutting out in mismatched colors and fonts, forming what could generously be called a “mosaic” but more accurately resembled a bookstore after an earthquake.
A potted plant perched on the windowsill, its leaves stretching hungrily toward the sunlight filtering through. Maggie had insisted on the plant—“It’ll keep us company,” she’d said—but Wren suspected its survival had far more to do with spite than care. The walls held their usual patchwork of posters and photographs: cityscapes teeming with life, open roads that promised freedom, candid snapshots from their adventures together—Wren grinning mid-wheelie as Maggie struggled not to tip over; both of them drenched in mud after a particularly poor route choice. Every image whispered fragments of their story back to her.
Wren turned her gaze toward Maggie, still bundled snugly in the duvet like some kind of sleepy burrito. One stray strand of hair fell rebelliously across her face, shifting with each exhale. Without thinking—because there wasn’t much thought required anymore—Wren reached over and brushed it away, her fingers hovering just long enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from Maggie’s skin.
The soft ripple of movement from Maggie’s body was pulling Wren out of sleep’s lingering haze like slow waves lapping at an anchored boat. She blinked hard once, then again, until her vision sharpened enough to take her in properly: Maggie lying there, lips parted, breaths spilling out in a rhythm so steady it almost felt rehearsed. The morning light did what morning light always does and bathed her girlfriend in gold: across her cheekbones, down the slope of her shoulder—all those lines Wren knew by heart.
A year together now—that realization landed softly but still managed to set off a ripple effect inside her chest. One year since they’d nearly collided during a ride through traffic—her fault entirely—and ended up laughing over too-strong coffee at some hole-in-the-wall café neither could remember the name of later. They hadn’t spent much time apart since then, but it hadn’t been without its complications.
Wren sighed quietly enough not to disturb her. The problem—or maybe just their problem—wasn’t love; they had that part covered. It was time—or more specifically, their utter lack of it. Both worked as bike couriers for rival companies (though “rival” made it sound far more dramatic than reality). They loved their jobs—deadlines didn’t drive them; velocity did. The electric pull kept them both moving forward, faster and faster. It made everything sharp and vivid. It made them feel alive. Missed dinners and postponed plans had become routine; sometimes all they managed was a half-asleep kiss in passing before being swallowed back up by schedules that refused to align.
Maggie stirred suddenly next to her, her eyelids fluttering open like she instinctively knew she was being studied. She stared at Wren for a second or two longer before breaking into one of those smiles—the ones that started slow but always ended up taking over her entire face.
“Morning,” she mumbled through half-closed lips.
“Morning,” Wren replied softly.
Maggie stretched dramatically before collapsing back into her pillow fortress with exaggerated defeat. “Five more minutes?” Her voice was low and raspy with sleep.
Wren fought back a grin. “That’s what you said yesterday.”
“And that’s what you said this morning. I heard you, woman,” Maggie shot back without opening her eyes.
“And I meant it when I killed the alarm clock.” Wren gestured toward the remains scattered across the floor—a pile of plastic shards that bore silent witness to her talent for violence before coffee.
Maggie cracked one eye open just enough to glance at the evidence before chuckling softly and burying her face in the pillow again. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s why you love me.” Wren smirked but got no reply beyond Maggie’s theatrical snore.
She watched as Maggie drifted back toward sleep almost effortlessly—not quite awake enough yet for responsibility but not fully lost to dreams either. Wren knew this particular expression well: relaxed features edged with total vulnerability. Even now—even after knowing this woman intimately for an entire year—that level of trust still made something shift inside her.
Maggie curled deeper into herself like she always did when asleep—knees pulled up toward her chest while chasing whatever warmth was left on this side of dawn. It reminded Wren vaguely of a cat soaking up sunlight by a window sill or maybe just someone who understood how fleeting moments like these could be.
And really? That was fine by Wren. Just look at that woman.
The sheet had slipped, leaving Maggie’s shoulders exposed, her collarbone catching the soft morning light. Wren’s gaze followed the curve of her neck, tracing it downward until it landed on the gold cross. The delicate chain had shifted overnight, leaving the cross perched awkwardly on Maggie’s shoulder instead of resting, as it usually did, at the center of her chest.
Wren reached for it, her fingers hovering just above the tiny pendant. They were calloused from years of gripping handlebars—hands that rarely showed restraint—but now they moved with a carefulness that felt foreign even to her. She hooked the chain lightly and flicked it back into place. The cross settled neatly against Maggie’s breast, rising and falling with each steady breath, like a small boat bobbing on a quiet tide.
She let her hand drop but didn’t look away. Her gaze lingered on the necklace, then drifted across Maggie’s skin where the morning sun fell in slanted streaks through the blinds. Two freckles caught her eye—small and faint against Maggie’s sun-warmed skin. They were close together but off-center, forming a constellation only Wren knew.
Her fingers twitched with the urge to trace them, to connect those dots like stars in an imagined sky. Instead, she stayed still, holding herself back. Disturbing Maggie’s sleep wasn’t worth it; besides, this was enough—this quiet moment where time felt paused. She filed it away in some corner of her mind reserved solely for Maggie: a private collection of details no one else would ever notice or care about.
Wren had asked Maggie to stop wearing the necklace once. It had been early in their relationship, when familiarity still came with sharp edges and missteps were common. She couldn’t remember exactly how she’d said it—it didn’t matter really—but she could still feel the charged silence that had followed.
“It’s not you,” Wren had told her, running a thumb over the tiny pendant where it rested against Maggie’s throat. “You’re so much more than whatever outdated crap that thing represents.”
Maggie hadn’t answered right away. Her hand had gone reflexively to the chain as though to shield it from Wren’s words. For a long beat, neither of them moved or spoke. Then Maggie nodded once—a quick dip of her chin—and tried for a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You’re right,” she’d said softly, almost too softly to be believed. “I’ll take it off.”
At the time, Wren had taken this as a victory—not over Maggie but for her—or so she’d told herself anyway. She remembered feeling oddly triumphant as Maggie unclasped the chain later and dropped it onto her bedside table without ceremony. That night Wren had kissed her deeply in gratitude or maybe reassurance; only later would she taste something salted on Maggie’s cheek and dismiss it without question.
It was the next day when things shifted.
Wren had come home early—earlier than expected—and found their apartment unusually quiet, almost stifling in its stillness. She’d called out for Maggie once, twice—her voice echoing back like an empty joke—and finally heard something muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.
She opened it slowly and found Maggie perched on the edge of the bathtub with her shoulders pulled inward like armor she couldn’t make fit anymore. Her head hung low; in one hand was the cross necklace tangled around trembling fingers.
“Mags?” Wren dropped to one knee in front of her without thinking or hesitating—it was instinctive almost—and tried to catch her eye.
Maggie looked up eventually through red-rimmed eyes that seemed stretched too wide and tired all at once. “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely before any explanation could be asked for or offered unprompted.
“For what?” Wren kept her voice level but felt some unnamed weight settle uneasily at the base of her ribs.
“I know I said I’d take it off, but I… I can’t.”
The guilt hit Wren like a sudden gust of wind to the chest—sharp, unexpected, and impossible to shake. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. “Hey,” she murmured, her voice softening. “It’s okay. Just talk to me.”
And Maggie had talked. Between hiccups and shaky breaths, she had explained what the necklace meant to her—how it wasn’t just about faith, though that was part of it. It was about her family, about tradition, about having something solid and familiar in a world that constantly felt like it could crack and crumble without warning.
“It’s…” Maggie cleared her throat and dropped her gaze toward the floor, as though the moment was too much for her to bear. “It’s part of how I was raised. It’s part of who I am.”
Wren had reached out then—not knowing exactly what else to do—and taken Maggie’s trembling hands in hers. She could feel the little cross pressed between their palms, its edges cool against her skin as though it wanted to remind her of its importance too. “I didn’t get it before,” Wren admitted after a beat. Her throat tightened so much that she barely managed the words that followed: “But now I do. And if it means that much to you… you should keep wearing it.”
Maggie had looked up at Wren then, something unspoken yet undeniable passing between them, and Wren had said one more thing: “I’m sorry I asked you not to wear it.”
The memory unraveled itself as quickly as it had surfaced—as though Wren was waking from a vivid dream where emotions lingered long after the scenes themselves evaporated. She blinked hard and shook her head like that might clear away the tightness coiling in her chest. Her gaze shifted back toward Maggie now, sleeping peacefully with the little cross on its chain resting quietly against her chest.
But just like that—because minds are rarely good at staying where they’re supposed to—her thoughts veered sideways again. This time landing on yesterday’s race: the Alleycat event. The rush hit first—the adrenaline flooding back like a tide she hadn’t entirely been prepared for—and then came the sharp clarity of every sound, every sensation.
The starting signal hadn’t fully faded before Wren launched herself forward into the chaotic pack of riders. Legs pistoning beneath her, lungs already starting their rhythmic burn; each inhale felt alive with purpose but also razor-edged with effort. The air streaked cold against her face as she weaved through competitors with precision that felt borderline reckless but necessary if she wanted any chance of staying ahead.
Her mohawk—purple strands flying wild behind her like some kind of war pennant—whipped around in the wind as she took a corner. Wren didn’t just feel alive in the velocity of the ride; she thrived in it. Every second was a gamble, an unspoken challenge to gravity and fate.
She shot through alleys littered with life doing its thing: dumpsters cluttering paths like obstacles no one cared enough to move; startled pedestrians leaping aside mid-scream; neon signs flashing dirty light onto wet bricks by her head—all noise and chaos along the street telling graffiti-smeared tales.
Main Street was where everything turned dangerous.
Traffic snarled loud enough to rattle bones—horns blaring endlessly over brakes screeching protest—and yet somehow none of it was louder than the blood pounding through Wren’s veins or the low hum-whir-click cadence coming from her wheels spinning too fast for comfort or caution.
And Zak—Zak had been right there ahead when everything narrowed down again into an alleyway that seemed darker than most others in memory or reality combined.
Wren could still feel how sharp every muscle felt in those moments; legs straining until they burned so bright-hot they may as well have been on fire. The alley walls blurred on either side—a moving tunnel made entirely from grime-coated brick and graffiti scrawls bleeding stories no one cared enough anymore even try decoding—and all Wren could see clearly was Zak up ahead, his blonde hair catching just enough light here and there so he seemed almost glowing: some deceptive kind of beacon promising safety while delivering exactly none.
Then came his tell—a hand dipping quick into his jersey pocket—and right behind came hers: eyes widening just far enough that time slowed itself down.
The plastic baggie came next—a small thing torn open quick-as-lightning—but what tumbled free clattered loud enough inside Wren’s head anyway because their meaning struck harder than anything she’d ever heard or seen mid-race before: tacks gleaming wicked-sharp under weak alley light scattering everywhere too fast/far across pavement suddenly hostile beneath tires threatening betrayal at every rotation forward now.
“Shit,” she hissed under breath already held too tight inside lungs begging release while jerking handlebars hard-left simultaneously praying blindly half against impact half against falling outright straight into Zak’s dirty gamble laid plain right there across unforgiving ground below them both.
Her bike wobbled violently before steadying itself back beneath instinct-driven balance alone somehow mostly intact—but anger drove itself upward even faster/hotter/heavier than relief soon after realization: Zak wasn’t playing dirty—Zak put people directly at risk without care beyond winning alone making him something lower than low.
Zak’s laughter reached her, faint but deliberate, the kind that didn’t just mock—it itched. Itching in a way you couldn’t scratch. Wren clenched her jaw. He thought it was over. Thought he’d outpaced her. But Zak should’ve known better. Wren didn’t lose. Not to him. Never to him.
“Tacks! Watch out!” Her voice bounced off the alley walls, jagged and hoarse, a warning flung behind her to riders she couldn’t see. She wasn’t sure if they’d hear or even care, but she had to yell it anyway. The tacks gleamed under thin slivers of dim light—crude little spikes scattered like caltrops in an ancient battlefield. She gritted her teeth, wondering just how many more Zak had decided to leave for them.
The alley was a blur, shadows pooling like spilled ink. Her tires slid and scrambled on the slick pavement beneath her, threatening treachery with every sharp turn. She leaned deeper into each curve, becoming one with the machine beneath her, every motion calculated instinct over thought.
Sweat clung to her skin, salted beads slipping dangerously close to her eyes. She blinked rapidly, keeping vision sharp and trained on the ragged trail ahead.
Her pulse pounded thick and heavy in her ears, like war drums driving soldiers forward into battle. The distance between her and Zak melted away inch by inch until the stiff slope of his shoulders sharpened into view. Even from behind him, she could tell he was glancing back too often now—could almost feel the nervous energy vibrating through his frame.
Wren’s lips twitched into a smirk—sharp and toothy enough to cut glass if it had to. He knew she was closing in on him. More importantly, he hated it.
The adrenaline kicked through her in waves: searing heat under her skin, raw electricity arcing through every nerve ending. It didn’t numb a thing—instead it made everything brighter, louder, clearer—the hiss of breath between clenched teeth, the rhythmic hum of spinning wheels slicing pavement—and somewhere further back, the chorus of shouts from riders as they dealt with Zak’s mess.
The bricks gave way again up ahead; this alley spat them out onto city chaos—cars honking their protests and pedestrians frozen mid-step as cyclists surged past like restless ghosts slipping through the cracks of reality where traffic laws held no sway.
Zak hesitated at the threshold—just for a second—but a second too long for someone like Wren not to notice. She took that gap without hesitation, diving headlong into moving cars and weaving through gaps so tight they felt custom-made for her alone.
The street was hers now—her stage. Where Zak faltered, Wren thrived without pause or doubt. Every horn blare or shouted curse fed fuel into her veins as she carved paths between vehicles with surgical precision.
Ahead loomed salvation—or damnation—with its gaudy banner stretched high above pavement littered with oil stains and discarded wrappers: the finish line.
She could see him fully now: his face losing its cocky veneer moment by moment as Wren crept closer still—her breath hot against chapped lips but steady enough for one final shot across his bow.
“Choke on this, asshole!” The words came out raw and jagged-edged as she launched herself forward with everything left inside—a final burst so reckless it felt stolen from someone else entirely but wholly necessary regardless.
Her tires screeched against asphalt when momentum wasn’t quite ready to let go yet—but there it was—she’d crossed first by what might’ve been millimeters but felt like miles.
The noise around them erupted—not quite deafening but loud enough that trying to dissect individual cheers felt futile—but none of it mattered right then because all Wren could hear was air rushing into lungs desperate for relief after being denied so long.
Zak rolled up beside her slower than before—as if disbelief weighed heavier than anger right now—and opened his mouth once words finally came back around looking for him: “How the hell did you—”
But Wren silenced him before he could finish forming sentences destined for nowhere good anyway: “Next time,” she bit out between gulps of air big enough they practically hurt; “you want to win? Try not sucking so bad.”
His expression shifted—anger mutating briefly toward sheepishness before settling somewhere closer toward shut-mouthed acceptance he wouldn’t admit aloud anytime soon—but then again maybe silence suited Zak best after stunts like today’s anyway.
The thrill of victory was dulled, as it often was, by Zak’s underhanded tricks. Two couriers had gone down because of his stunt, and instead of triumphant wheels across the finish line, they dragged themselves and their battered bikes behind them like war-weary soldiers retreating from battle.
The first courier, a wiry guy with dreadlocks, had hit the pavement hard enough to make Wren flinch at the sight of his road rash. His bike had spun out behind him in a chaotic tumble of wheels and metal. His exposed skin—knees, elbows, forearms—looked raw enough to sting just from a glance, streaked with crimson and dust. His shirt hung in shreds, revealing red patches that would soon bloom into painful scabs.
The second casualty, a girl distinguished primarily by her neon green helmet (and Wren couldn’t remember her name because she hadn’t been around long), had fared better. She’d managed to roll with the impact but ended up in a heap nonetheless—a heap that took its time moving.
Wren had been there in an instant—adrenaline doing most of the driving—her heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else for those first few moments. The guy with the dreads hobbled off to the side, grimacing as he held up scraped palms for inspection. The girl hadn’t even made it halfway upright yet, groaning as she wrestled with what remained of her mangled bike.
“You guys okay?” The words came automatically. Wren’s eyes darted over their injuries, searching for anything broken or unnaturally twisted. Road rash and bruises—not ideal but better than broken bones or worse. Relief washed over her like a cold compress on a fevered forehead… right until she caught sight of the girl’s bike frame twisted grotesquely out of shape. That thing was dead on arrival.
The dreadlocked courier shook his head in disbelief, muttering through clenched teeth. “Just some road rash… but seriously, what the hell happened?”
“Zak,” Wren spat without hesitation, her anger bubbling back up before she could tamp it down. “That asshole dropped caltrops in the alley.”
At that, Green-Helmet Girl finally managed to pull herself upright enough to yank off her helmet, revealing an angry bruise already forming high on her cheekbone. Her voice came out sharp and incredulous: “Tacks? Are you serious right now?”
From somewhere nearby Zak piped up defensively: “It wasn’t me! It was the guy in front of me! I almost wiped out too!” His voice cut through like nails scraping glass—and just as easily ignored by everyone present.
Wren’s mind replayed it again now—the crashes, the bruises, Zak lounging on the sidelines like nothing had happened—and found herself biting down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste iron. Sure, no one had been seriously hurt this time—but how long until “this time” turned into something far worse? Zak’s recklessness wasn’t just infuriating—it was dangerous.
* * *
Mornings weren’t normally an enemy for Wren—not even when the alarm clock blared too early—but today she allowed herself five minutes after silencing it before reaching for her phone on instinct. All these memories, emotions, anger. In just five minutes.
There wasn’t much waiting for her on her phone: no urgent messages or missed calls demanding attention. She half-curled under the blanket, stealing the residual warmth, she glanced left at Maggie.
Maggie still slept. Wren had lived a lifetime of memories and that chick was still sleeping.
A grin spread slowly across Wren’s face—the kind that started small but couldn’t be stopped once it gained momentum—and before she could think better of it, she leaned over closer until her lips brushed against Maggie’s bare shoulder.
She followed Maggie’s spine downward with deliberate kisses soft enough not to wake her immediately, pausing occasionally as though savoring some invisible map etched across Maggie’s skin. By the time she reached Maggie’s arm, gently peppering it with small pecks along its length like raindrops hitting pavement, movement stirred beneath blankets.
“Mmm…” Maggie shifted—but only slightly—pulling more fabric over herself rather than bothering with full consciousness quite yet.
“Morning,” Wren whispered as though letting Maggie stay asleep wasn’t already clearly off today’s agenda.
“Five more minutes…” came Maggie’s muffled reply from beneath layers of cocoon-like bedding.
Wren chuckled softly—though sympathy wasn’t exactly high on her list right now—and tugged at the edges of Maggie’s fortress until daylight started creeping through like an uninvited guest.
“Time’s up,” Wren informed her lightly before yanking away what little remained between Maggie and reality—or more specifically cool morning air that earned immediate protests.
“You’re evil,” Maggie mumbled groggily—not quite awake yet still managing indignation—as Wren trailed teasing kisses down from forehead past collarbone toward less mentionable stops until giggles replaced complaints entirely.
“Effective though,” Wren countered cheerfully while sliding out from bed herself onto hardwood floors chilled by autumn mornings seeping through thin walls poorly suited for insulation purposes.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Wren’s voice boomed through the small apartment, bouncing off walls that hadn’t yet shaken off the quiet of dawn. “Breakfast won’t eat itself!”
From the bed came a muffled groan. Maggie, face buried in her pillow, muttered something unintelligible, though by tone alone it was safe to interpret as an insult. Wren smirked and headed to the kitchen, her stride as cocky as ever. “A menace who’s about to make you eggs,” she called back over her shoulder.
The kitchen wasn’t much—a stove too close to the fridge, a single window covered by security bars and the remnants of a galvanized window well—but Wren moved around it like she had trained for this exact choreography. Fridge door open, carton of eggs and butter in hand, pan on the burner before the door swung shut again. She cranked the heat a little higher than medium because patience wasn’t her strong suit. The butter hit the pan with a sizzle sharp enough to cut through any lingering sleepiness in the air.
Wren cracked three eggs into a bowl, whisking them briskly—efficiently—like this was some culinary mission she needed to accomplish before any distractions arose. Her eyes stayed fixed on the mixture as she poured it into the shimmering butter. The hiss and pop of eggs hitting heat filled her ears as she stirred.
“Maggie!” Wren didn’t look up from her work; not ruining breakfast required vigilance. “You better be getting dressed!”
There was a pause—no reply—then Maggie’s voice drifted from the other room. “I’m on it!” Her casual tone suggested otherwise.
Wren stirred methodically, scraping the pan just before anything had the chance to stick. From behind her came the faint rustle of fabric and soft steps on hardwood—a sound that normally wouldn’t warrant much attention but now pricked at her awareness like a static charge before lightning strikes.
She turned her head but immediately froze. Maggie stood in the doorway—not quite dressed, not quite undressed—with her courier uniform bunched loosely in one hand and an unmistakable glint of mischief lighting up her eyes.
“Well,” Wren said after a beat, arching an eyebrow in mock appraisal as she leaned one arm against the counter for effect. “This is shaping up to be dinner and a show.”
Maggie smirked but said nothing. Instead, with deliberate intention, she began pulling on her cycling shorts—the kind that clung like they’d been painted on—as though dressing required choreography only she knew. Her hips swayed subtly with each movement, unhurried yet calculated enough to dare someone to look away.
Wren did not look away.
She might have burned breakfast right then if not for spitting hot butter hitting her hand. A well-timed stir saved both her eggs and perhaps her pride, though neither emerged entirely unscathed. Still half-distracted—because who wouldn’t be?—she called out toward Maggie without meeting her gaze: “You’re killing me here, babe.”
From across the room came an exaggerated laugh—not quite mocking but close enough. Maggie zipped up her jersey slowly now—and clearly for effect—the faint metallic rasp somehow louder than even Wren’s agitated stirring.
Turning back toward the stove, Wren exhaled sharply through her nose and gave herself a mental shake—all focus now on salvaging what remained of breakfast before it was too far gone in more ways than one.
Moments later, Maggie padded toward her with that same smirk still playing on her lips—not growing or fading but simply existing there like it had found permanent residence—and slid an arm casually around Wren’s waist. The gesture was warm but light enough to make someone wonder whether affection or teasing had been its primary purpose.
Then came Maggie’s voice: low, near-whispered next to Wren’s ear but clear enough to snap anyone fully awake: “Damn. Your ass is ridiculous. What’s your secret?”
Wren felt rather than saw Maggie’s grin widening as she reached back instinctively with one hand—not so much pushing Maggie away as pretending she might—but only muttered dryly while flexing under Maggie’s touch: “Good genes and bad decisions.”
The laugh that escaped Maggie turned real then—not performative anymore—and before long Wren found herself laughing too despite everything (or maybe because of everything). For a few seconds neither spoke; they just stood there in their too-small kitchen with its too-close counters pressed up against whatever space existed between them while their poorly contained giggles filled every remaining inch.
Eventually—because some things could only wait so long—the eggs were scooped onto plates while Maggie busied herself pulling tortillas from the pantry shelf above their heads like it was all part of some unspoken pact about balance: one person starts what another finishes until everything—including them—falls together just right.
“Avocado?” That was all she said without looking up as shredded cheddar spilled over tortilla edges onto countertops no one would bother wiping down until at least tomorrow night.
Wren nodded automatically before realizing no one could see nods when their back was turned and instead reached into the fruit bowl where avocados always sat like small green promises, each one whispering about ripeness but almost always delivering a damn lie.
The knife sliced cleanly through peel first then flesh—a single twist revealing pale green perfection beneath tougher exteriors (a metaphor if ever there was one)—before fingers worked deftly at peeling skins away altogether until nothing remained hidden anymore.
Wren sliced through the avocado halves with mechanical precision. The soft flesh gave way easily to the spoon, leaving behind clean, hollowed shells. She placed the smooth, green mounds onto the cutting board, her knife rhythmically chopping them into uniform slices. The blade moved deliberately, each motion precise and controlled. Wren liked tasks like this, things she could masterfully execute without much thought. It left room in her mind for other matters.
Some of the avocado clung stubbornly to her fingers. She noticed it absently at first, the cool slickness of it against her skin a subtle contrast to the warmth of the sunlit kitchen. As she wiped her hands on a dish towel, an idea surfaced, unbidden and mischievous.
“Hey, Mags.” Wren held up a finger smeared with avocado and wiggled it in Maggie’s direction. “Want a taste?”
Maggie looked up from grating cheese, her brows raised in curiosity until she saw Wren’s finger extended toward her like some kind of slick offering. A slow grin crept across Maggie’s face—one of those playful smiles that always left Wren wondering what exactly was going on behind those sharp blue eyes. Maggie set down the grater and crossed the small kitchen space with a measured step.
Without a word and without breaking eye contact, Maggie leaned in close and took Wren’s finger into her mouth. Her lips sealed around it as if this were perfectly normal breakfast preparation behavior. Her tongue flicked lightly against Wren’s skin as she licked off every trace of avocado, deliberate but unhurried.
Wren stopped breathing—or she thought she did—her pulse stuttering in response to this unexpected turn of events. Maggie finally released her finger with a soft pop before straightening up with that same infuriating grin.
“Mmm,” Maggie murmured approvingly. “Tastes better off you.”
“Tease,” Wren muttered under her breath, though there wasn’t much weight behind it. Her voice had dropped an octave she hadn’t intended.
Maggie winked at her before turning back to finish assembling the burritos as though nothing had just happened. Wren blinked herself back into focus and returned to slicing avocados, though now her movements were less steady than before.
They settled at their narrow kitchen table—with its perpetually wobbly leg that no amount of folded napkins ever seemed to fix—and tucked into breakfast. Sunlight poured through the windows and pooled onto their plates like honey. The homemade cheese-and-avocado-and-jam-the-egg-in-there-too burritos came together perfectly—simple food elevated by fresh ingredients—but for all their culinary success, they ate almost too quickly to appreciate it.
“So,” Wren said mid-bite, catching a drip of salsa with the back of her hand before it hit her plate. “You ready for tonight?”
Maggie’s face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside her. “The Vista?” Her smile widened into something near childlike excitement. “Hell yes—I’ve been counting down all week.”
Wren grinned back at her partner’s enthusiasm—it was impossible not to get caught up in it. “I know! And did you see they added DJ Spindle Sister last minute?”
“No way,” Maggie gasped through a mouthful of food before choking on her own excitement.
“Whoa—careful there,” Wren said as she leaned forward to pat Maggie’s back once firmly in case needed assistance was required. “Don’t die before we even get there.”
Wren finished up the dishes and finally dressed. She walked over to the dresser, her toes curling against the cool hardwood floor. She peeled off her oversized t-shirt, tossing it onto the cluttered floor.
“Use the laundry basket!” Maggie protested.
Wren shimmied out of her baggy boxers, kicking them into the laundry basket. The morning air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and legs. Wren rummaged through her drawer, fishing out a clean pair of underwear.
She slipped them on, the soft cotton hugging her curves. Next came the socks, thin and moisture-wicking. Wren sat on the edge of the bed, rolling them up her calves with care, smoothing out any wrinkles.
Standing again, she grabbed her cycling shorts from the back of a chair. Wren stepped into them, tugging them up her legs. The spandex was a second layer of skin, compressing her muscles. She adjusted the waistband, making sure it sat just right on her hips.
Finally, Wren reached for her cycling jersey. She pulled it over her head, the fabric sliding down her torso. Her arms snaked through the sleeves, the material stretching to accommodate her muscular build. She tugged at the hem, straightening out any bunches.
The jersey fit snugly, like a glove molded to her body. Wren rolled her shoulders, feeling the fabric move with her. She flexed her arms, testing the range of motion. Satisfied, Wren zipped up her jersey, her fingers lingering on the collar. The familiar fabric hugged her body, but it didn’t bring the usual comfort. A nagging unease gnawed at her gut, a leftover from yesterday’s wild chase.
She glanced at Maggie and forced a smile, not wanting to worry her girlfriend.
“You okay?” Maggie asked.
“Yeah, just thinking about work,” Wren replied, avoiding eye contact.
She busied herself with packing her courier bag, double-checking her gear. Helmet, check. Gloves, check. Water bottle, check. Her hand brushed against the jumbo auto body marker tucked in a side pocket. A small smirk played on her lips as she remembered the satisfying squeak it made against car windows.
“Thinking about the race again?” Maggie probed, always perceptive.
She thought back to yesterday’s race, the scatter of tacks on the pavement, the swerve of her bike. The memory sent a shiver down her spine.
“I just… I can’t stand working with that cheating bastard,” Wren muttered, zipping her bag with more force than necessary.
Maggie wrapped her arms around Wren’s waist, resting her chin on her shoulder.
“You can’t let him get to you,” Maggie said softly. “You’re better than that.”
Wren leaned back into the embrace, letting out a long sigh. “I know, I know. It’s just… the city’s dangerous enough without assholes like him making it worse.”
Maggie pulled away and flopped onto the bed. “I don’t wanna go. Let’s stay in bed all day,” she said as seductively as she could with her courier bag jammed into her back.
Wren stood in the doorway, her gaze settling on Maggie sprawled across the bed. One leg dangled off the side, and her courier bag—her ever-present companion—now sat nestled beside her like a loyal pet waiting for its next command. She was fully dressed for work, but there she lay anyway, flat on her back as though getting out of bed was again an insurmountable task. Wren let her eyes linger.
“You planning on moving anytime today?” Wren asked, stepping closer. Her voice carried that teasing lilt Maggie had come to expect—half playful, half challenging.
Maggie groaned in response but didn’t bother opening her eyes. “Maybe,” she said at last, dragging out the word as though even speaking required monumental effort.
Wren crouched down and lifted Maggie’s dangling foot onto the bed with deliberate carelessness. The movement jolted Maggie just enough to make her sigh dramatically, but not enough to spur her into action. Without waiting for an invitation, Wren dropped onto the mattress beside her. The bed bounced under the added weight as Wren shifted to prop herself up on one elbow.
Maggie turned her head toward Wren, a lazy smile lighting up her face. “You’re awfully cozy for someone who was just lecturing me about getting up,” she murmured.
“Don’t tempt me,” Wren countered, brushing a stray curl away from Maggie’s face. “I’d love nothing more than to stay here all day with you. But those bills? They don’t pay themselves.”
That earned another groan from Maggie—this one louder and more theatrical. She threw an arm over her eyes like some tragic figure in an old movie. “Why did we pick careers that keep us broke and bruised?”
“Because deep down we thrive on chaos,” Wren said dryly, absentmindedly drawing circles across Maggie’s forearm with the tip of her finger.
Maggie peeked out from under her arm, one eyebrow quirking upward. “Speak for yourself. I just like biking through the city without getting stuck in traffic.”
Wren grinned at that—a mischievous grin that made Maggie’s stomach flip even after all this time. “Sure you do,” she said. “Is that why you once outran a cop car?”
“That was one time,” Maggie shot back quickly, though laughter danced in her voice now. “And it happened because someone dared me.”
“Best dare I ever made,” Wren replied softly, leaning closer until their faces were only inches apart. “Well… second best.”
Before Maggie could ask what the first was—or maybe she already knew—Wren closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to Maggie’s in a tender kiss that stretched out longer than either of them intended.
When they pulled apart, they stayed there for a moment longer, faces so close their noses almost brushed. Neither of them spoke; there didn’t seem to be any need to fill the silence between them as they lay tangled together on the bed. Outside, faint morning sounds filtered through the thin apartment walls—the distant honk of a car horn, someone slamming a door—but they felt far away and unimportant.
The buzz of Maggie’s phone cut through the stillness like a knife. It vibrated angrily against the nightstand until Maggie reached over to grab it. She squinted at the screen as if it might go away if she stared hard enough.
“What is it?” Wren asked without looking up.
Maggie frowned and held up the phone so Wren could see for herself. On the screen glared a new text message—from Karen.
Still wasting your potential on that ridiculous bike job? When are you going to grow up and get a real career?
Wren read it twice before sitting up abruptly. The soft fondness in her expression hardened into something much sharper, much angrier.
“Your mom’s an asshole,” she said flatly.
“She means well,” Maggie mumbled automatically, but there wasn’t much weight behind it—no real conviction in defending Karen today.
“She means to control you,” Wren snapped back without hesitation. Her fingers found their way into Maggie’s hair again—soothing this time instead of teasing—and stayed there, anchoring both in place. “You’re amazing at what you do. You love it.”
Maggie didn’t respond right away, but when she finally did look back at Wren, there was gratitude shining in her tired eyes—a quiet kind of warmth that didn’t need words behind it.
“Thanks,” she whispered simply.
Wren answered by pressing a kiss to Maggie’s temple—a lingering gesture meant more as reassurance than affection this time—and then leaned back with renewed energy.
“Come on,” she said briskly as she stood up and offered Maggie a hand. “Let’s go show Karen exactly how much potential you’re wasting.”
For once, Maggie smiled at that name—not because anything about Karen had changed but because standing here now with Wren reminding her what mattered most felt like enough to drown out even Karen’s loudest disapproval… at least for one more day.
Maggie groaned but eventually swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing beside Wren by the door. “I hate mornings,” she mumbled, grabbing her helmet. She always said this, as though declaring it daily might somehow change the cruel fact of mornings existing.
Wren just grinned. She couldn’t resist. Before Maggie could settle the helmet on her head, Wren hooked her fingers into Maggie’s messenger bag strap and pulled her close, her lips capturing Maggie’s in a kiss that started as sweet and ended somewhere more mischievous. Her hands wandered, predictably and unapologetically, to Maggie’s backside until Maggie swatted them away with mock indignation. “Save it for later,” Maggie murmured, but there was no real heat behind the words. She smiled. “Please.”
Wren turned next to Argo, her bike leaning against the wall like an old friend waiting patiently for adventure. “Morning, beautiful,” she said under her breath, running a hand along its frame. Argo never slapped her hands away. The black aluminum tubing gleamed faintly in their dim basement light. A smudge on the crossbar caught her attention—a crime against Argo’s otherwise pristine condition—and Wren swiftly wiped it away with her sleeve. There. Perfect again.
Kneeling down, she unzipped Argo’s under-seat toolkit and gave everything a quick once-over: spare tube, tire levers, multitool, patch kit—all accounted for. It was a ritual by now, one she could perform blindfolded if needed.
Meanwhile, Maggie grabbed Bridger—her own bike—from its usual spot near the laundry hamper. Bridger wasn’t flashy like Argo but solid and dependable in a way that fit Maggie perfectly. Wren often teased Maggie about Bridger’s lack of personality; Maggie always countered that this made Bridger the ideal partner for long-haul rides—uncomplicated and steady.
Together, they wrestled their bikes up the steep staircase leading out of their basement apartment. The steps creaked ominously under their weight, as they did every morning, though neither of them seemed particularly motivated to do anything about it. Wren took the lead with Argo balanced easily across her shoulder while Maggie followed close behind with Bridger bumping against her hip.
The narrow staircase finally spit them out into open air. Morning light spilled across everything—the sidewalk damp from last night’s rain, the dew clinging stubbornly to blades of grass along the fence line. A symphony of urban noises greeted them: distant car horns blaring in frustration, pigeons shuffling on wires overhead, a jogger’s rhythmic footfalls echoing faintly against asphalt.
