“Two.” I hear the soft click of the lock, and the door creaks open just enough for me to see her. Willow stands there, trembling slightly, her pale skin looking sickly in the sliver of light that peeks through the window. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, blotchy and raw, and her green eyes are swollen and glassy. Her lips are chapped and sore, probably from biting them, and her hair falls messily around her face, strands sticking to damp cheeks. She looks smaller somehow, fragile in a way that hurts me.
I just want to hug her and make every bit of her sadness disappear.
“Step back,” I murmur, keeping my voice low, steady. She doesn't resist—just shifts to the side, pale fingers brushing against the doorframe. I push it open gently, careful not to startle her, and place the plate of pancakes and steaming coconut latte on her bedside table.
The smell of syrup and coffee fills the room, cutting through the heaviness and odd smell. I move to the windows, drawing back the curtains and sliding them open. Fresh air sweeps in as I push the windows open, carrying a hint of the world outside, a reminder that life keeps moving even when grief tries to trap you.
I glance back to see her standing in the same place, her green eyes on me. Sassy sprawls across the sheets, completely ignoring what's going on.
“Eat,” I tell her, folding my arms as she looks between me and the plate. “Before it gets cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Right on cue, her stomach betrays her with a loud, unmistakable growl. I keep my face neutral, but it takes effort not to smirk.
“Clearly,” I notice the way her cheeks slightly redden. “Now eat it, or I’ll feed you myself.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “Has anyone ever told you you're really bossy?”
“Once or twice.” I tilt my head slightly. “Now, stop trying to distract me. Eat them, drink that monstrosity, and then get yourself in the shower.”
I don't miss the way she picks at her nails, tearing at them like she's trying to peel herself out of her own skin. Or the way she trembles, subtle but constant—too little food and sugar, too many sleepless nights. It only confirms what I already knew. I’m glad I drowned those pancakes in syrup. She needs it, whether she admits it or not.
She exhales slowly; the fire she threw at me the other week is completely gone. “Just… get out.”
I bite the inside of my lip. I knew this wouldn't be easy. I know if I step back now and let her disappear into herself any further, I won't be surprised to find her in a hospital bed. Or worse—buried next to Leon.
Her father.
“I’ve given you weeks,” I tell her quietly. “I know you're hurting, and I’m not asking you to like me or even talk to me.” I take a step closer, not crowding her, just enough that she has to hear me. “I’m asking you to look after yourself.”
There's no response; she just looks to the side.
“And if you won't,” I continue, firmer now. “Then I will have to.” My eyes don't leave her face. “You can swear at me. You canhit me. Hell, you can hate me as much as you like for the rest of your life if that makes it easier. But I'm not letting you lose yourself. Not on my watch.”
The room falls quiet again, thick with the sound of her breathing. Tears keep slipping down her freckled cheeks, and my heart cracks open. I look away for a second because if Rose were here right now, I’d tear into her without hesitation. A grieving daughter abandoned like this is unforgivable. I’m reminded again how blinded I was and how idiotic my past choices were.
Hindsight is a bitch.
Eventually, Willow turns her head to look at me. Her voice was hoarse, barely there. “What coffee is it?”
“Coconut, your…” I start.
“Favourite,” she finishes for me, like she's shocked that I know.
The feeling I get from just that one word hits me straight in the ribs, and the emotion it evokes causes my breath to shudder. Absolutely not, I push it back down and ignore it.
She still doesn't move, so I cross the room and lift the mug myself, holding it out to her. After a beat, she takes it. Her fingers brush mine—light, fleeting—but I feel it anyway. She keeps her gaze on the cup, but doesn't move away from me.
It's a start. I’ll take it.
“I’ll wait downstairs,” I tell her, already turning toward the door, forcing myself not to linger too long. Being this close makes me feel things I don't have the right to.
“Wait, why are you waiting for me?” she asks, a tinge of annoyance in her voice.
“I’m taking you to work with me.”
I don't wait for the argument I know is coming. I shut the door softly behind me, heading downstairs to wait for her. Even if it takes all day, I will wait.
