George groaned as he made his way groggily down the stairs, running his fingers through his shaggy red hair. Sleep was a cruel mistress, evading his every advance. He made it to the kitchen to take a swig of fire whiskey, but he raised his brow in interest when he found Wren sitting at the counter with a glass already in hand.

A cheeky quip was already on the tip of his tongue, but it quickly died off when he saw the redness around her eyes. Was she…crying? Impossible.

“Wren? You okay, love?”