Page 143 of Wild Then Wed
And if this is all it ever is…her, in my arms, the quiet between us holding more than either of us will say—I think it might still be more than enough.
Chapter 24
WREN
I’ve been living in Sawyer Hart’s house for one week, and miraculously, no one’s died. No one’s burst into flames either, which feels like something to celebrate.
The place is beautiful in that curated, lifeless way, with wide open rooms and glossy hardwood floors. The furniture looks like it was chosen by someone who doesn’t actually sit down, or maybe someone who prefers theideaof comfort to the real thing. Everything is immaculate. The drawers glide closed as if they’re scared to disturb the silence. Nothing creaks. Nothing clangs. The floors don’t sigh under your feet.
There’s no clutter. No junk drawer full of takeout menus and half-dead pens. No chipped mugs or blankets tossed over the back of the couch. It’s the kind of place where no one’s ever danced in the kitchen or cried over a movie or left dishes in the sink just because they were too tired. Maybe it used to be, but it doesn’t feel like anyone really lives here anymore.
There’s nothing wrong with the house—it’s beautiful, actually. Picture-perfect, even. But it feels like it’s holding its breath, or like it’s waiting for something or someone to comehometo it, to leave their shoes in the hallway or spill wine on the rug or forget to close a drawer.
My room’s on the far side of the house, tucked away, which I’m grateful for. I can close the door and pretend I’m the only one here. It has its own bathroom, a window that fills the space with warm golden light in the mornings, a ridiculous amount of closet space I won’t come close to filling, and a bed so comfortable it might ruin me for all other beds. The sheets smell like pine and clean laundry and something I can’t name but want to wrap myself in, and water pressure in the shower is perfect.
Still, I keep my bags mostly packed. Just in case one of us wakes up and decides this was a terrible idea and I need to make a quiet, dignified exit—like a well-mannered runaway. I don’t trust how easy it’s been. Or how much I don’t hate it here.
We’ve slipped into something that vaguely resembles a rhythm. Not quite a routine, but close enough. He’s always up before me, out the door before the sun’s fully made up its mind. Between the clinic, the ranch, and taking care of Hank, I don’t think he has a single hour that isn’t being pulled in ten directions.
I’m gone a lot too—mornings with Zeus at the Harts’, afternoons with Junie and Ringo back home. We move around each other, mostly. But sometimes we meet in the middle. A shared pot of coffee. A few words in passing.
It’s the little things I’m starting to notice.
Like how he leaves the living room light on when I’m out, even if I won’t be back until late. Or how his keys are always stacked in a perfect line by the door, like even the messes in his life are under control. Or the way he sets out two mugs every morning, even though we almost never drink our coffee at the same time.
And then there’s the ice cream.
There are always three tubs ofSwoonice cream in the freezer. Always the same flavor—s’mores. Which just happens tobe my favorite. I haven’t said anything, and neither has he. But we both know I know. And we both keep pretending we don’t.
It’s a quiet thing between us. A non-conversation. But somehow, it says more than if we actually talked about it.
And maybe that’s becoming our thing—saying everything without saying it at all.
There’s a door on his side of the house that’s always locked. I didn’t notice it right away—it’s just past his bedroom, easy to miss unless you’re wandering, which I was the day I got turned around trying to find the laundry room. I tried the handle without thinking, expecting maybe a linen closet or another spare bathroom, but it didn’t turn.
I haven’t seen him open it. I haven’t even seen him glance in its direction. And I haven’t asked about it, partly because it feels like a question I haven’t earned the right to ask, and partly because I already know the answer would only lead to more questions.
Whatever’s behind that door belongs to a version of Sawyer Hart I haven’t met yet. The version that existed before this house got so still. Before I moved in and started rearranging the quiet.
Still, I think about it. Probably more than I should. And if I’m being honest, I’ve been thinking abouthimmore than I should, too. It’s not anything he’s said, and it’s not something I can really define—just that since the wedding, things feel different. The space between us feels…less neutral. Something neither of us is ready to name but can’t quite ignore, either.
Maybe it’s just the proximity. Or the timing. Or the simple fact that we slow danced through what felt like half the night, his hands on my waist, mine looped around his neck, like we’d done it a hundred times before. And now, apparently, my body has decided that’s just something we like to do.
But it doesn’t quite feel like nothing. It feels like there’s something else tucked in there—something quieter and a little harder to name.
There has to be some sort of Newtonian law at play here—like our bodies decided long before we did that they were going to be drawn to each other. Against all logic, against all planning. Like we’re stuck in some invisible gravitational field. I think maybe I’m made of something that responds to him, and he’s made of something that answers back.
We orbit each other, but we never really escape it. Our bodies remember something our minds keep trying to rewrite. And even when we don’t speak, it’s there—in the way my brain speeds up and slows down when he walks into a room. The way I catch myself waiting for him to say something. Anything. The way I already know how his hands feel on me, and the fact that I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
Some part of us is already tangled up in the other, and we’re just pretending not to notice. It’s mutual, involuntary, and honestly a little inconvenient.
I keep going back to that night—trying to figure out if that’s when it started, or just when I stopped pretending it hadn’t.
It was probably the wine. I’d had just enough to feel untethered, like I could float above how tightly wound the whole wedding day had been. Everything had felt too big—too many eyes, too much noise, too many versions of me I was trying to hold together. The only part that didn’t feel like a performance was when we were outside. When it was just him and me and a freezing balcony andUnchained Melodyplaying somewhere behind the glass.
And then whatever song came after that. And the one after that, and the one after that.
I remember the way my arms felt around his neck, how the edge of his collar pressed into the soft part of my wristslike it belonged there. His hands were steady at my waist, and somehow my body already knew exactly where it fit against his, like we’d done it before—even though we hadn’t.
