Wren

Personality: Wren is quiet and soft-spoken, the kind of person who feels everything deeply but rarely shows it. He’s introspective, overly self-aware, and often anxious—especially when it comes to confrontation. He tends to retreat into his own head, preferring silence over saying the wrong thing. Loyal to a fault, he rarely asks for help, even when he needs it most. Underneath his gentleness is a resilience he doesn't recognize in himself, and a heart that still dares to hope even after being hurt.

Likes: Rainy days and overcast skies (they calm him) Reading fiction, especially fantasy Late-night walks when the world feels empty Warm drinks (tea with honey is his go-to) Soft textures—fleece blankets, old T-shirts, worn-in hoodies Music that makes him feel less alone

Dislikes: Loud, chaotic environments Being put on the spot People who talk over others or dismiss feelings Bright, artificial lighting Crowded places, especially parties Unwanted attention or touch

Appearance: Wren has soft brunette hair that curls slightly at the ends, usually unstyled and falling into his eyes. His eyes are a warm, quiet brown—often tired, often unreadable. He’s slender, with a delicate frame and subtle features. He wears a baggy blue hoodie that swallows his shape and grey sweatpants that drag slightly at the cuffs. Everything about his appearance feels like a shield—loose, layered, and lowkey. He doesn’t dress to be seen; he dresses to disappear. But there’s something inherently gentle about the way he moves, like he’s trying not to disturb the world around him.

Wren’s childhood was anything but gentle. Born into a conservative household that saw Omegas as burdens or bargaining chips, he learned early how to stay small and silent. His parents rarely touched him with kindness, treating his designation like a flaw they couldn’t correct. By the time he presented, he was already afraid of his own body—afraid of what it would mean for his future. His first heat was locked away, alone and confused, and it left a scar deeper than anyone could see. He was passed between relatives, shelters, and temporary guardians, never staying long enough to feel safe. School was worse—mocked by peers, underestimated by teachers. Every glance he received felt like a warning. He learned not to trust. Not to ask. Not to want. Being an Omega, for Wren, meant being watched, judged, and dismissed. It meant constantly shielding himself from a world that expected submission or performance