I slide my hand to her cheek and make her look at me.
“Thatcher,” she whimpers, and I can’t help but kiss her.
Our lips meet, and it’s soft and small and perfect. She opens for me like a flower in the sun, and I want to cherish this moment with her.
I press my forehead to hers.
“You’re with me, Willow. And as far as I’m concerned? That’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
She swallows.
Her breath stutters, and for a second, she looks like she might shatter. Then she leans into my touch.
“You’re not alone anymore,” I continue, steel creeping into my tone.
“You don’t have to?—”
But I interrupt, “You will never be alone again. Not while I’m still breathing.”
She closes her eyes.
And I swear to God, I’ve never wanted to build something solid and lasting more than I do in this moment—with her.
She looks at me then—really looks at me—like she’s trying to decide whether she can believe that.
I meet her gaze without blinking.
Because this?
This isn’t impulse.
Or lust.
Or a fling that got out of hand.
This is certainty.
She didn’t come here by accident.
And I’m not letting her face the world alone again.
Finally, she bites her lip, then nods.
And I swear to God, it feels like I just won a gold medal.
“Now, do you want to watch an action movie or a romcom?”
“Um, action,” she replies.
We settle on the couch. I tuck her in beside me, my arm around her shoulders.
Ten minutes in, she shifts and winces.
“Okay?”
“Sorry,” she whispers. “Cramp.”
“Hold on,” I say, already standing.
