Home.
That word shouldn’t wreck me the way it does.
But it does.
It slides in like a hot knife between my ribs, carving out a hollow I didn’t even know existed.
A hollow that aches for belonging, for safety, for someone to look at me the way he does—like I’m his.
I reach for my coat with hands that tremble just a little, not from the cold, but from something else entirely.
Something dangerously close to hope.
The snow crunches under my new boots—my beautiful, hand-tooled, made-just-for-me boots—and each step feels heavier and lighter at the same time. Like I’m walking toward something I want but don’t believe I deserve.
The truck is already running, warmth curling out from the vents as I slide into the passenger seat.
The leather is warm.
His presence beside me even warmer.
It wraps around me like armor.
Like protection.
Like a promise.
I close the door behind me and let out a slow breath.
But even as the cab fills with heat and the snow-streaked windshield blurs the world outside, one stubborn voice echoes in the back of my mind.
It’s only temporary, Willow. Don’t forget that.
It’s the same voice that kept me in Florida too long.
The one that whispered I wasn’t enough, that I had to settle, that people like me didn’t get the fairy tale.
And maybe that voice has protected me.
But now?
Now it just hurts.
Because the truth is—I want to forget.
I want to forget every reason I shouldn’t trust this.
Every past mistake.
Every stupid rule I made about not getting involved.
Every whispered warning about lines you shouldn’t cross and men you shouldn’t fall for.
I want to forget temporary and believe in possible.
Because this man?
This rough, hard, complicated man with kind eyes and callused hands who looks at me like I matter?
