“Not denying it,” he fires back.
Landon finally speaks again, voice low. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.” There’s hurt in it—not accusation, just the kind that comes from loving someone who never asks for help.
Willow looks at him, quiet. “It didn’t feel this bad until I stopped moving.”
He exhales, brushing hair gently off her temple. His fingers linger. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“You and me both,” Carson says, leaning his head againsther shoulder briefly. “But she did it. Won Nationals like a badass.”
Finn finally moves, stepping closer. He brushes his knuckles down her arm, then presses two fingers lightly to her wrist. “You’re still shaking,” he says softly. “Let us take care of you now.”
She looks around at all of us—her team, her chaos, her safety net—and for once, she doesn’t deflect.
She just nods.
“We’ve got you,” I say, stepping forward and pressing a kiss to her temple.
And when I glance over, even Landon nods too.
For now, we’re all in this together.
The bass thumpsthrough the floor of the club, akin to a second heartbeat—louder than necessary, but Willow’s smile makes the noise irrelevant.
She’s glowing. And she’s absolutely beautiful like this.
Nationals champions. Her team earned every damn cheer echoing through the crowd on the dance floor. Twinkle’s waving a neon cocktail around like a victory flag, and Cheese is teaching Knox a dance that has zero rhythm but a lot of enthusiasm. Daisy’s somehow managed to commandeer a roped-off lounge booth just for the team.
And we’re here too.
More specifically, we’re with her.
Not hovering, but definitely not more than an arm’s reach away.
Hunter’s already claimed the end of the booth, scanning the exits as if he’s expecting trouble even while sipping something suspiciously pink and probably fruity. Carson sits on the other side of Willow, tossing peanuts in his mouth andleaning into her space just enough that she leans back into him on instinct.
Finn perches nearby, camera on the table, one leg bouncing. Landon’s nursing a drink beside me, eyes drawn to her every few seconds, even when he pretends otherwise.
And Willow’s barefoot now—heels she insisted on wearing, ditched somewhere under the table, nursing a bruised rib and a glowing smile.
“Okay, what is this?” Daisy calls as she approaches the VIP booth, drink in hand and eyebrow arched.
Willow glances up, already looking sheepish as Daisy slides into the seat across from us, stretching her arms out along the back, taking up the space effortlessly.
“You brought the whole personal security detail, your stalker—no offense—and the ex?”
Willow chokes on her sip of water, sputtering.
Twinkle follows close behind, plopping down beside Daisy with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong—five hot guys trailing behind you like ducks is a whole look, babe,” she says, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “But you’re not even pretending anymore, are you?”
“I—” Willow starts, but Carson cuts in smoothly.
“She’s pretending to tolerate us,” he says, popping a peanut in his mouth. “Barely.”
Willow elbows him lightly in the ribs, which he overdramatizes with a grunt, before he tucks her into his side.
“She’s blushing,” Cheese sing-songs as she struts past, grinning wide and ruffling Willow’s pink hair like she has a death wish.
Willow yelps, swatting at her half-heartedly.
