He rises, looming over me, his own breathing heavy. He brings his glistening fingers to his lips, tasting me as he looks me dead in the eye.
“Fuck,” I whisper watching him, and he leans in forward. His warm breath curling around the shell of my ear.
“Five dollars in the swear jar, naughty girl.”
6
CAST
I keep catchingmyself looking at her. At the small smile she doesn’t realize she’s wearing. It’s the same one she used to give me years ago—when she still blushed if I brushed her hand, when I thought sayingI love youwas the bravest thing I’d ever done. Now it hits me the same way it did back then—sharp, warm, impossible to breathe through.
The air smells of pine sap and woodsmoke, the kind of winter that bites deep if you inhale too fast. Willow walks beside me, her gloved hands buried in her coat pockets, her scarf still crooked from when I jerked her into me earlier.
Her breath comes out in small clouds, catching the light before disappearing. I watch the curve of her cheek, the way the sunlight turns the strands of her hair to copper under the gray sky. She looks peaceful, but I know better. Willow only looks calm when she’s thinking too much.
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I pull it out, thumb swiping across the screen.
Damien:Taking the kids and Vincent for a late lunch. Take your time.
I stare at the message for a second, then huff out a laugh that fogs the air. Subtle as ever.
Willow glances up at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “Damien’s running interference.”
She frowns. “Interference?”
“They went to get lunch.” I nudge her gently with my shoulder. “Means we’ve got time.”
Her brow lifts, cautious but curious. “You told him to?”
“No. He just knows.”
Her lips part like she wants to say something, but the wind rushes between us, pulling at her scarf, and the moment stretches thin.
I didn’t expect that text to hit the way it does. Gratitude isn’t something I’m good at. Not the soft kind. But lately, Damien and Vincent both have been trying in their own ways—to give me room with her, to make space instead of fighting for it.
And I don’t take that lightly.
The lot empties out as the afternoon dips closer to evening. Families pile trees onto car roofs, kids tugging at mittens and coats. A golden light spreads over everything—the kind that looks like nostalgia before it even fades.
Willow tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks pink from the cold. “So what else do you have planned for us, sir?” she teases, her voice low but playful.
We wander toward the far end of the field, where the pines grow closer together, the snow untouched except for the narrow path our boots carve through it. The chatter of the lot fades behind us, replaced by the steady crunch of snow and the whisper of wind through the trees.
I glance sideways at her, the edge of a smile tugging at my mouth. “I still haven’t seen the gallery.”
She stops short, eyes going wide with surprise. “You haven’t?”
“Want to show it to me?” I ask, smiling at the beam of excitement rushing through her.
Her whole face lights up—cheeks pink, eyes bright, the cold catching her breath and turning it into little clouds of joy. She steps closer until her shoulder brushes my arm, her glove nudging against mine before she catches my hand and locks our fingers together.
“Then you better call an Uber,” she says, her voice soft but charged, the words curling in the space between us like something secret.
For a moment, I don’t move. Just look at her—the way the dying light catches the edges of her hair, the way her nose crinkles when she smiles, the way every bit of her energy feels like fire under all this cold. She looks happy. Free, even. And it’s been too long since I’ve seen her like this.
My heart kicks once, hard.
