“I’ll figure it out, Angel,” I whisper against her hair. “Don’t worry about that.”
She exhales again, softer this time, and sags into me completely—trusting, believing, even when she shouldn’t have to.
I squeeze her waist gently. “You still want to go Christmas shopping?”
She lingers on him a heartbeat longer, the blue glow of his phone reflected in her eyes. Then she nods.“Yeah,” she says finally. “Let’s go before the roads freeze over.”
9
WILLOW
The mall isa living thing this time of year—warm and bright and too loud for its own good. Lights spill from every corner, a hundred colors blinking in rhythm to the same loop of Christmas songs that follow us from store to store. The smell of cinnamon, coffee, and fake pine oil hangs heavy in the air, clinging to the back of my throat.
We’re halfway through our list: bags dangling from Cast’s arms, his biceps flexing beneath his coat every time he shifts their weight. He complains about the crowds but still insists on carrying everything—his version of chivalry, gruff and wordless. My hands are wrapped around a paper cup of cocoa that’s already gone lukewarm, and I can feel the sugar clinging to my tongue. Every shop window blurs together—silver ornaments, red scarves, “LAST MINUTE DEALS” signs that glow like neon guilt.
But I can’t focus on any of it. Not really.
Vincent’s been pacing in my head since we left the house, the image of him standing in the driveway, phone pressed to his ear, carved from cold and shadow. He’s always carried stress like armor—measured, restrained, impossible to read—but lately itfeels heavier. Like he’s slipping behind something even we can’t reach.
Cast keeps trying to drag me out of it. He bumps my shoulder as we walk, voice cutting easily through the noise. “If I see another gingerbread candle, I’m committing arson,” he mutters, tossing another shopping bag over his shoulder.
I laugh, soft but distracted. “You say that every year.”
“And every year, I mean it.” He leans closer as we pass a kiosk full of cinnamon-sugar almonds. “Bet you twenty bucks you’re gonna buy more of those stupid reindeer pajamas.”
“First of all,” I say, bumping him back, “they’readorable.”
He grins, flashing a dimple. “You wore them once, Willow. Once. Then you stole my hoodie for the rest of the week.”
“Your hoodie’s softer.”
“It’s stolen property.”
“Then arrest me,” I tease.
He laughs, that low, husky sound that always gets under my skin more than I want it to. For a while, it almost feels normal—light, easy, like the holidays are supposed to be.
We stop at a display of snow globes, each one a tiny world caught in glass. He picks one up, gives it a sharp shake, and watches the glitter fall. “You think he’s okay?”
My smile falters. “I don’t know,” I admit. “He doesn’t… let me in lately. It’s like he’s here, but not really.”
Cast hums in thought, setting the globe back down. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
But his voice doesn’t sound convinced, and the silence that follows says everything neither of us will.
We turn a corner, and the air changes—less peppermint, more perfume and lace. The sign over the next storefront glows blush-pink, framed with fairy lights:LUNE.The display window is all velvet and gold hangers, a mannequin in deep red satin framed by silver tinsel and strands of pearls.
I stop walking.
Cast notices instantly. “That’s not on the list, Angel.”
“I know.” My voice comes out smaller than I expect. “I was just thinking…”
He waits, patient, green eyes glinting under the soft mall lights.
“Vincent’s impossible to shop for. He has everything—watches, suits, whiskey that costs more than rent. But…” I swallow, my cheeks warming as I keep my eyes on the display, “he always loved when I dressed up. When I surprised him.”
Cast’s smirk softens into something almost tender. “Yeah,” he says after a beat, voice lower now. “He’d lose his mind over that.”
