Page 33 of Top Shelf

I had to wait until enough people had piled into the bar before I could slip in without her noticing me. I don’t want tospook her. Not after Ronan told us she believes we’re the ones who attacked her that night. We all want answers. We want to know why she’s here. Is it because she recognized us in The Stanley that night? Or is it purely coincidence that she’s here now?

Ultimately, we want to help her in whatever way we can, but the last thing I want to do is scare her.

I have no doubt that the others have found their own ways of keeping an eye on her, infiltrating their way into her life. Lucian probably barged his way in unapologetically. Ronan will try to manipulate his way into her orbit. Me? I don’t need to be a physical part of her life. I’m happy to observe from the sidelines. To be her quiet shadow. Her secret watcher.

Hence, for the past twenty-seven minutes, I’ve sat in a dark corner of the bar and watched, turning a coin between my fingers. It’s an old piece—worn smooth at the edges, heavy for its size. For years, I’ve turned it over between my fingers while thinking of her, and now that she’s here, in my life every day in some small way, I find myself reaching for it more and more often.

From my chair, I track her movements back and forth across the bar. I’ve been here long enough to memorize the tilt of her head when she’s listening to a customer. The way her hands move—confident, precise—as she pours beers and passes them over.

Long enough to catalogue the difference between this version of her and the one I’ve seen on campus and at the arena. Gone are the downcast eyes and the heavy hush of demons dragging behind her. She’s looser here. Not soft or vulnerable, but…free. Or as close as one can get to that feeling.

There’s an actual smile on her face. Not the fake one she wears when anyone addresses her at the rink. Arealone. Quiet.Crooked. The kind that tugs slow at one side before it takes over your whole expression.

I can’t stop looking at it. At her.

The pain in her is real. Familiar. Beautiful in its brokenness.

It doesn’t beg for pity—itdaresthe world to look away.

Except I can’t.

I’ve only ever trusted pain that knows how to survive itself, and she does, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

There’s an older guy with a graying beard, and a younger woman with tattoos down one arm working alongside her behind the bar. The guy seems to be the silent type, only speaking to the girls occasionally when asking for something or directing them, but Wren and the female bartender talk back and forth anytime they are in the same vicinity.

At one point, Wren throws her head back at something the other girl says and belly laughs. I watch on in wonder. Given what I know she has survived, it’s miraculous that she can laugh at all. That she can find little moments of pleasure amongst the drag of everyday life. Because I know, more often than not, she’s unable to find that pleasure. That her demons are too close to the surface to allow her any kind of genuine joy.

I want to hear that laughter. To see it on her every day. I want it to slip between my ribs and take root like a thorn. Ghost across my skin like silk caught in the wind. My fingers tighten around my glass, the pressure grounding me in a moment that’s already drifting too far.

I’ve spent my life in the shadows, content to observe, but she makes me restless. She makes me want to step into the light just long enough for her to look at me.

Just long enough to know what it feels like to be seen.

I shift in my chair, adjusting my sightline as Wren moves effortlessly through the room. Unseen, I watch as she clears a nearby table. Unaware of eyes on her still, her smile fades, hershoulders stiffening back into that quiet tension she carries on campus. Her eyes dart from side to side, giving away her uneasiness in the loud, busy room. She’s uncomfortable now that she doesn’t have the safety of the bar standing between her and the rest of the patrons.

The bar begins to thin just after ten, groups of people trickling out into the cold, dark night. Without the crowd, I know I’ll stand out. It won’t be much longer until Wren spots me, and I have the feeling that if she did, it would ruin whatever peace she has found here.

Tucking my notebook back in my pocket, I slip out the door while her back is turned. The air outside bites colder than expected, and I wrap my coat tighter around me. Gravel crunches beneath wheels as cars vacate the lot. I cross the emptying space in silence until I reach my car parked beneath the long, sloped shadow of the trees. From here, I can see the warm glow of the bar windows. Shapes moving inside. One of them is hers.

I settle into the driver’s seat and wait.

I tell myself I’m only hanging around to make sure she makes it home safe.

But the truth?

I can’t make myself look away.

The air in the rink is sharp this morning—frost still clinging to the glass, ice fresh-cut, humming beneath our skates like a living thing. It’s always quiet here, even when it’s loud. That’s why I like it. The sound of sticks tapping. The scrape of blades. Breath, grit, focus.

It’s the only place where silence feels like power.

Out here, I don’t need words. I don’t need explanations.There’s a system. A rhythm. Everyone has a place, and when they move wrong, you feel it. You correct it. Order, born from chaos.

Here, silence is control.Ichoose when to hit. When to retreat. When to let the storm roll off me and when to become it. There’s no guessing game on the ice. Just instinct, speed, and the cold clarity of knowing exactly who you are when the puck drops.

Coach runs us hard through drills, barking out corrections with his usual gravel. I nod when he flicks a look my way, which is his version of approval. He doesn’t expect words from me. No one on the team does anymore.

Words aren’t what I’m here for.