Galatea has become Henriette’s temporary office, though Carmen had given her shit for spreading herself across two tables every morning; the argument dropped when she left a hefty tip on the table at the end of day 1, and she’s been enjoying sandwiches and suspiciously strong cappuccinos every day since. But her cushy time kicking her feet up is quickly running out now that her real agenda is set.
She finds herself there, still, wasting time kicking around some low priority emails. Henry’s lips press tight together as she works up the will to do her actual job. After a moment, she turns in her chair to disrupt someone at a nearby table. “Hey. I’ll buy you another coffee if you give me a tour of campus. But, like, a good tour of campus.” Henry doesn’t want a map. She wants something of substance to get her started. “I’ll even throw in a doughnut if you answer some questions.”
The coffee and donut clatter to the ground, scolding brown liquid splashing against her bare legs. Wren has the heel of her thumb caught between her teeth before she’s even aware of it, stifling a scream, vision blurring with tears –– whether she’s crying from the burn or the humiliation, it’s still up in the air. She waits for it all to pass, for the world to right itself, unaware of how harshly her teeth dig into her hand. With the gloves on her hand, they don’t pierce flesh, but she imagines them doing so, drawing blood that seeps into her mouth, coating her teeth red. She fucked it all up again. All she had to do was walk in a straight li–––
Gentle fingers pry her hand from her mouth. Freya, who’d been in the process of accepting the woman’s invitation, now stands in front of Wren, muttering a quiet spell to heal up the burns on her legs. Wren’s cheeks burn with fresh embarrassment, but the blonde waves it off before it can arise. “You’re fine,” she mutters, lips pulling into a small smile. She’s getting better at that. “Why don’t you give the tour? I can clean this up. I still have something to work on.” And it’s nothing more than a chance to escape the eyes that are now on Wren, she knows that, but she accepts it as it is, nodding with red cheeks and downcast eyes.
As Freya steps around her to gather napkins and clean up the mess, Wren wrings her hands in front of her and meets the eyes of the woman who’d asked Freya for a tour. Wren should’ve said no; she should’ve let Freya do this. But Freya’s already disappeared in search of a roll of paper towel and no one else is stepping up to the plate and–––
It’s not this complicated, Wren, just speak.
“Hi,” she says, taking careful steps towards the woman, doing her best not to be the klutz that she is. “I, um... I–– I’m Wren. D–– um, d... do you still want the, um, the–– the tour?”
