Chapter 13: The Difficult Client (Continued)

"You're not alone now."

"I know." Her eyes were bright, too bright. "I'm not sure what to do with that."

"You don't have to do anything." Marcus shifted closer, fitting himself along the back of the couch so she could lean against him if she wanted. "You can just be here. I'll be here too."

Wren hesitated for a moment, then turned and let herself be folded against his chest. She was shaking, very slightly, the way someone shakes after adrenaline has drained away. He put his arms around her and held on.

"I'm tired," she whispered.

"I know."

"I'm tired of being competent."

The sentence landed in him like a stone. He thought about all the ways Wren presented herself to the world—capable, knowledgeable, unflappable. He thought about how much strength it took to be the person everyone else leaned on, and how little room that left for needing anything.

"You don't have to be competent with me," he said into her hair.

"Yes, I do." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "If I'm not competent, I'm just... this. Exhausted and useless and full of other people's pain."

"That's not useless. That's human."

"I don't like being human."

"I know." He held her tighter. "But I like you human. I like you when you're tired and when you're uncertain and when you let me make you soup. I like you when you're not performing anything."

Wren went very still. Then she made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been the beginning of tears, or both.

"You say things," she said, "like they're simple facts. Like 'the sky is blue' or 'this soup has rosemary.'"

"They are simple facts. To me."

"Most people don't talk that way about feelings."

"Most people aren't data scientists who have been trying to categorize their feelings for thirty-three years and have recently given up."

She laughed, genuinely this time, and the tension in her shoulders eased another fraction. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm yours."

The words came out before he could think about them. They hung in the air between them, unmeasured and unverified. Marcus felt a brief spike of panic—the kind of panic that came from making a claim without sufficient evidence—but Wren only went still for a moment and then relaxed into him more fully.

"Okay," she said softly.

"Okay?"

"Yes. Okay."

They lay on the couch while the evening light faded. Marcus did not check his phone. He did not think about his inbox or his deadlines or the regression analysis that still did not make sense. He thought about Wren's breathing, which had slowed and deepened, and about the way her hand had found his and held on.

At some point she fell asleep. He did not move. The apartment settled around them—the candle cooling in its dish of salt, the herbs drying in their bundles, the repaired glass catching the last of the light. He stayed awake and kept watch, as if his attention alone could hold back whatever grief might try to follow her into sleep.

When she woke, it was full dark. She lifted her head, disoriented.

"What time is it?"

"Almost nine."

"You let me sleep for two hours."

"You needed it."

She sat up, running a hand through her hair. "You should go home. You have work."

"I do. It can wait."

"Marcus—"

"I'm not leaving." He said it calmly, the way he might state any other observable fact. "Not unless you tell me to. And even then, I'll probably check on you from next door."

Wren looked at him in the dim light. "Why?"

"Because today you held someone's grief and it cost you. Because you made me soup last week when I was stressed about a presentation and I never properly thanked you. Because I have a key to your apartment and a shelf and apparently a reputation for making soup, and I'm going to use all of it."

"That's a lot of reasons."

"I have more."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she leaned forward and kissed him. It was not like the kiss on the kitchen floor—that had been hunger and relief and the breaking of a long tension. This was quieter, gentler, the kiss of someone who had been seen and was grateful for it.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For not needing me to be a witch right now."

Marcus understood, suddenly, what she meant. Everyone who came to Wren wanted something from her—healing, answers, proof, comfort. Even he, in the beginning, had wanted her to be a puzzle. Today she had given everything she had to a grieving mother, and what was left was just a woman who was tired.

"I don't need you to be anything," he said. "I just need you to be here."

"I can do that."

"Good." He stood up and held out his hand. "Come on. Bed. You're still exhausted."

"Are you coming with me?"

"Only to tuck you in."

Wren raised an eyebrow. "To tuck me in."

"I'm capable of restraint."

"Are you, though?"

"No." He admitted it easily. "But I'm capable of priorities, and right now your sleep is the priority."

She took his hand. "You're a surprising person, Marcus Cole."

"I'm a work in progress."

"Aren't we all."

He led her to the bedroom—her bedroom, which he had not seen before—and watched her climb under the covers still fully dressed. She was asleep within minutes, her face softened into something young and unguarded. Marcus sat on the edge of the bed for a while, listening to her breathe, and then he went back to the kitchen and cleaned up the rest of the dishes.

When everything was tidy, he wrote her a note and left it on the pillow beside her: I went home to get clothes and my laptop. I'll be back before you wake up. The soup is in the fridge. — M

He let himself out quietly, locked the door with the key she had given him, and went back to his own apartment to pack a bag.

He was not going anywhere. He just wanted to be ready to stay.