No half-hearted fights over the remote or shared inside jokes or showing up to cheer just because you belonged to each other.
She had absence.
Loss.
And then a mother who probably twisted that into guilt, or shame, or worse.
And a man—a pathetic excuse for one—who saw that hole in her and didn’t try to fill it.
No.
He picked at it.
Made it scab.
Then tore the scab off again and again until it scarred over so deep she forgot she was ever supposed to feel whole.
My jaw tightens. I slide my hand up her back, palm settling against the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair.
“Willow,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be. “You with me?”
She nods once. Doesn’t lift her head. Doesn’t speak for a long while.
“That must be nice,” she says finally.
“What?” I whisper.
“Having people show up for you.”
I feel something hard tighten around my body, like a lock around my chest. And I press a kiss to the crown of her hair and whisper against it.
“I don’t know how long it’s gonna take. I don’t know if I’ll always get it right. But I’m gonna fixthat.”
She stiffens.
“It’s not yours to fix, Thatcher.”
“I’m gonna fix that. That feeling,” I say. “That ache, like something’s missing. Like you’re still waiting for someone to show up.”
She trembles.
“If it takes my whole life, Baby Girl, I’m gonna prove it to you. I’m gonna show up.”
“Please don’t make me promises,” she whispers so low I almost don’t hear her.
“You’re gonna believe me someday, Willow.” I pull her tight against me. “You are so worth it. And I’m so sorry you don’t know that because someone should’ve fought for you every fucking day. And now, someone will.”
Her hand fumbles across my chest until she finds my heart.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
I squeeze her tighter.
“That’s okay. I am too.”
“What if I break it? What if I break you?”
“You won’t,” I promise. “And I won’t.”
