Because she didn’t fit their narrow idea of acceptable.
Because Willow is real. Curvy.
Perfect.
The knowledge settles into me slow and heavy, like something locking into place.
And whatever that feeling is—anger, protectiveness, want—I don’t have a name for it yet.
But I know this much, no one gets to tell her what she’s allowed to enjoy ever again.
And that certainty? That knowing I’ll never allow that to happen again?
It tightens my chest and lights a fuse in my gut all at once.
Makes me want to find out who said that to her.
Makes me want to learn everything I can about her.
Not just surface shit—where she’s from, what she does—but the real stuff.
The things she keeps tucked away behind that careful smile.
Just what have you been through, Baby Girl?
The thought hits hard enough that I have to take a sip of soup to ground myself.
I did a stint in the army when I was younger. I know people.
People who could run a background check on Willow Esposito in under an hour if I asked.
But that feels wrong.
Like stealing something that isn’t mine.
I don’t want answers handed to me on a screen. I want her to choose to tell me. I want her to trust me enough to open up, piece by piece.
And what the fuck am I even thinking?
This is ridiculous.
Women like her don’t end up tangled with men like me.
Guys who work with their hands.
Who come home sore and filthy.
Who spend days in the woods with nothing but mud, steel, and the elements.
The last woman I was involved with was years ago. My twenties.
Hell, I was even engaged for a hot minute—three months, to be exact.
She loved my money. Hated my life.
She thoughtlumberjackmeant flannel for fashion, not function.
Thought I’d want to travel, go to parties, live some jet-set fantasy.
