Instead, she hugs her knees tighter, her gaze drifting back to the window.
“Wanna talk about it?” I ask, keeping my tone light, teasing. “Or should I just make a sarcastic comment and pretend I didn’t just walk in on you mooning over your personal stalker?”
She hesitates—just for a second—then nods. “Yeah. Let’s talk.”
I blink, caught off guard by the seriousness in her voice. “Really?”
“Yeah,” she says again, softer this time. “But not here.”
I gesture toward the hall with a mock flourish. “After you, peaches.”
The kitchen’s warm with the scent of strong coffee and toast, and something a little sweet lingering in the air—Graham’s touch, obviously. He and Hunter had just left not long ago. Graham muttered something about needing to “find proper nesting materials,” as though the world might end if Willow didn’t have the perfect blanket or plush to curl around. The man was tense, focused—probably to keep himself from storming across the street and tearing Finn apart.
Hunter had followed a few minutes later, mumbling about a quick security check-in for a client. He’d promised to be back before lunch, but I knew him—he wouldn’t stay gone longer than he had to, not with the way Willow had looked last night. Not with the softness in her scent this morning.
Now it was just me and her.
And something told me we needed this moment, just the two of us.
I slide two mugs onto the island, then grab the plate of toast I’d buttered and stacked like some kind of breakfast peace offering.
Willow settles across from me, one knee tucked up into the chair, the edge of the robe she pulled on brushing the floor. Her hair’s still messy from sleep, cheeks flushed prettily.
I push a mug toward her and say, “Okay. Talk.”
She lifts it, takes a sip, and sighs. “You’re going to make me start?”
“Well, you were the one caught longingly gazing across the street like a tragic omega Juliet.”
She glares at me, but it’s weak. There’s the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I raise both hands. “Fine. I’ll start.”
She waits.
I clear my throat, tearing a piece of toast in half. “I don’t hate him.”
That gets a blink.
“I mean, I want to hate him. He’s pushy. Obsessed. And he doesn’t have a clue how to take his foot off the gas. But…” I trail off, thinking about the way Finn looked at her on the sidewalk. Not with ownership. Not even hunger. Just—pure, aching need.
“But you don’t,” she says softly.
“No. Because I see it too.” My gaze meets hers. “The way he looks at you.”
Her breath catches. Her fingers tighten around the mug.
“He watches you as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear,” I say. “Like the second you stop being real, he’ll crumble. And I don’t think it’s just a game to him. Not like we thought.”
I see the surprise flicker through her expression before she tucks it away.
“I didn’t say I trust him,” I add quickly. “And neither do they. But I think you do.”
Her eyes lift. “I’m not sure what I trust.”
“Fair. But you want to.”
She nods, slowly, and that’s the part that’s the most dangerous.
