She’s beautiful. Breathtaking.
But she’s shaking.
That’s what matters.
I strip off my flannel and wrap it around her shoulders.
I see the warmth settle into her bones immediately.
Then I scoop her up without ceremony, holding her close like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I—I can walk,” she whispers.
“Not tonight,” I say quietly.
Not when I’m still feeling raw about what happened tonight—what could have happened.
I carry her through my house, every instinct screaming at me to protect, to shelter, to keep. I take her to the one room I should absolutely not take her to.
My bedroom.
I set her down in front of the bed and step back just enough to look at her. She’s swallowed by my shirt, hair still damp, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and dark with shock and something else I don’t want to name yet.
“Thatcher?” she says softly.
That’s my name on her lips.
And it does something to me.
I lean in before doubt can catch up—not rough but claiming all the same.
I kiss her.
Deeper than the first time.
Slower.
Full of everything I’m holding back.
She makes a small sound, surprised, and I pull away immediately, forehead resting against hers, breath unsteady.
“I won’t take anything you don’t offer,” I say, voice low and sure. “If you want me on the couch, I’ll go. No questions. But if you want me to stay?—”
I stop.
I make myself wait.
“—I need you to tell me.”
Our eyes lock, and I wait.
CHAPTER 22
WILLOW
I’m not a virgin.
Obviously.
