“Hi. I’m Willow.”
No hesitation. No more apologies for existing.
I gesture to an empty chair beside me.
“Sit. Eat.”
She hesitates just a beat, glancing at the table like she’s not sure the invitation is real.
I hold her gaze.
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Her eyes widen slightly, then she nods and takes the seat.
I grab a plate, build her a sandwich without asking—ham, turkey, cheese, mustard—then slide it across the table. Soup next. Napkin.
She stares at it.
At first, there’s disbelief. Like she’s bracing for the punchline.
Then something else flickers across her face.
Gratitude.
Sharp enough it hits me right in the chest.
All because I handed her a sandwich.
A fucking sandwich.
She blinks fast, clears her throat.
“Thank you,” she says softly, like it means more than it should.
That shouldn’t be enough to make a woman look like she might cry.
But it damn near does.
And suddenly, I want to know what kind of world taught her that this—this bare minimum—was something to be thankful for.
“Coke or water?” I ask.
“Um—Coke is fine,” she says.
I crack the can and hand it to her.
She doesn’t drink it right away. Just stares at the red label like it might disappear if she blinks too long.
I frown. “Something wrong with it?”
“What?” She startles, then shakes her head. “No. Sorry. It’s just, um, I haven’t had a Coke that isn’t Diet in a long time.”
My brow furrows.
Then it clicks.
She’s been drinking that artificial crap because someone decided she should. Because some asshole told her what her body was allowed to want.
