But I don’t say that. Not yet.
Instead, I brush my thumb across her cheek and I kiss her—slow and sure and meant to brand her right to the bone.
She kisses me back, and I feel her melt again. Just a little.
“Try them on,” I murmur.
She nods, sniffling, and sits down at her desk. I can see she’s about to undo her sneakers—those battered, broken-down excuses for shoes—and I can’t fucking take it.
I kneel.
Right in front of her.
“Let me.”
She makes a small noise—half surprise, half protest—but she lets me.
I untie her old sneakers, pull them off gently, noticing the threadbare socks beneath. My gut twists.
She didn’t tell me how bad things were. But she didn’t have to.
I slide the boots on, careful with every touch.
She doesn’t flinch.
Just watches me like she can’t believe I’m real.
“Did he tell you? Steel toes. Waterproof. Wool lining. And they’ve got your name all over them,” I say, patting her ankle as I tie the last lace.
She stands. Takes a few slow steps, then turns to face me with the brightest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Thatcher,” she breathes. “They feel amazing. And warm.”
I smile back, my chest full and aching.
It shouldn’t feel this good—to give her something so small.
But it does.
Because it’s not just boots.
It’s care. It’s attention. It’s proof she matters.
And God help me, I want to give her everything.
CHAPTER 32
WILLOW
The afternoon vanishes in a blur of soup refills, boot compliments, and stolen glances.
And now, as the day winds down, dread curls low in my gut.
I have to tell him.
I don’t want to hide anything else from Thatcher McCrae.
I’ve already kept too much to myself—about Dan, about Florida, about the fear that still clings to the edges of my skin like ash.
