Working a job she didn’t know a thing about, scraping together her confidence like broken glass just to feel safe again.
And I didn’t know.
I didn’t know.
But I still blame myself.
My jaw clenches. My heart pounds. But I reach out and wrap my fingers around hers again, bringing her hand to my mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles like it’s a vow.
“Happy birthday, Willow.”
My voice is rough. Low. But she gives me a wobbly smile, like it still means something coming from me.
She continues, braver now.
“Thank you. I-I had a job, you know. I had a life. A shitty one, but a life all the same. But I couldn’t, I mean, I just didn’tgo to the bank when I left because my ex works at one. And if I accessed it—if I made a move—he’d find me. And I needed time. Space. Solid ground under my feet before I did anything. But I’m not asking you to fix it. I swear I’m not dumping this all on you?—”
“Willow.”
I say her name like a promise.
Then firmly, “Stop.”
Soft. But laced with steel.
She blinks up at me, startled.
And I take both of her hands in mine, grounding her.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Not about having money. Not about surviving. Not about being smart enough to wait until you felt safe. That’s what strong people do. That’s what smart people do. You did exactly what you needed to do to get free and stay that way.”
She’s breathing faster now, and I swear there’s this shine in her eyes that guts me in the best possible way.
“I’m not here because I think you need saving. I’m here because I want to be. I want you. And not because you’re some victim or charity case. Not because you’re scared or starting over.”
I brush a strand of hair from her cheek and let my hand linger.
“I want you because you’reyou. Because you’re strong. And smart. And beautiful. Because you’re brave as fuck. Because even scared and on the run, you picked yourself up and now you’re carving out a life for yourself.”
Her lips tremble.
And when I pull her closer and press my forehead to hers, I let myself breathe again.
She thinks she’s too much—too messy—too broken.
But I don’t care about her money.
I don’t care about her past.
All I care about is her.
I squeeze her tighter, willing her to feel the truth in my arms.
Because this woman is breaking my damn heart and doesn’t even realize it.
This woman—this brave, beautiful, battered woman—thinks she needs to explain her worth to me like I haven’t already seen it.
“I don’t care about your bank account,” I tell her. “Or what you had to leave behind to get here. You made it out. You got free. And now, you’re here. With me. And we can go as fast or slow as you like.”
