Putting my hand on her back.
Calling her Baby Girl like it slipped out without permission.
Maybe I pushed too far.
Or maybe she’s just skittish.
Either way, that’s fine.
I can work with skittish.
Skittish means careful. It means alert.
It means she’s learned the hard way that not every man deserves access to her space, her trust, her body.
And I don’t blame her for that—not for a damn second.
If anything, it makes me want to prove I’m different.
The last few days have made one thing painfully clear, though—whatever this started as?
It’s no longer a crush.
I’m not just some boss noticing his employee.
I’m not indulging in harmless curiosity or passing attraction.
This thing has teeth.
My interest in Willow is turning into something sharper. Heavier. Something that settles deep in my chest and refuses to be ignored.
Obsession is often viewed as an ugly word, but it fits.
I want her more with every passing hour.
Not just her body—though Christ, that’s a problem all on its own—but her.
The woman behind the careful smiles and polite distance.
The way she listens like every word matters.
The way she moves through the sawmill quietly but competently, like she doesn’t want to take up too much space even when she’s earned every inch of it.
There’s a sadness in her she never names.
She carries it like a bruise beneath the skin—faded at the edges, but still tender if you press too hard.
I see it in the way her eyes go distant sometimes. In how she flinches at raised voices, even when they’re not meant for her.
She looks sweet.Soft. Breakable.
Curvy in a way that makes my hands itch to learn her shape, to memorize it so thoroughly I’d recognize it blind.
But she’s not fragile.
There’s strength in her, buried deep. Survival.
A kind of quiet endurance that tells me she’s been bent without breaking.
