On the landing, I pause.
I can hear them—River and Willow—soft voices drifting down the hall, then a burst of laughter. Real laughter. It stops me in my tracks, and before I realise it, I’m smiling to myself.
I’ll do anything to make sure that sound never disappears again.
She deserves happiness. Deserves to fall in love with life again, and that starts with her love for dancing.
By reminding her how it feels to move without sadness, to lose herself in something she loves, to remember who she was before the world took her dad away. I don't know how yet, but I will.
It's a promise I make to myself that I refuse to break, and I never break my promises.
Chapter 11
Willow
“Can't sleep?”
I yelp, nearly biting my tongue as I freeze mid-handful of sweets, homeward bound, playing softly in the background. Heart pounding, I twist around on the couch.
Elijah's leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place.Well, technically, he does Willow.Pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips, bare chest on display, a cheeky smirk on his pretty face.
Not pretty.
Absolutely not pretty.
“You need a bell,” I complain, hastily setting the bowl on the coffee table as he strolls closer, far too relaxed for someone who just scared ten years off my life.
“I’ll be sure to wear one next time,” he muses, dropping down beside me. His gaze flicks to the TV. “What are you watching?”
I glare at him, pulse racing, painfully aware of how close he is now. “A film, obviously.”
He hums, clearly amused, eyes still on the screen. “Sarcastic tonight, aren't we?”
I huff and grab a sweet. “You just bring it out of me.”
That earns a deep laugh from him, warm and unguarded. I glance before I can stop myself, the flickering light from the TV washing over his skin and making the lines of his tattoos easier to see.
There's a light dusting of dark hair across his chest—something I always thought I didn't like on a man. Apparently, I'd been very wrong about that.
My eyes drift lower, tracing the artwork etched into his skin. A large, intricately detailed clock spans his shoulder, frozen at a precise moment in time. Woven through the Roman numerals is River's name. Below the clock, the design softens. Angel wings unfurl across his arm, the feathers layered and detailed, some sharp and defined, others fading as they trail downward. Between them drift heavy clouds, textured and deep, like a sky just before a storm. The further the ink travels, the lighter it becomes—feathers thinning, clouds breaking apart.
Near his hand, small flowers emerge, delicate and almost fragile, scattered between more fallen feathers. It's beautiful and sad. Something I could look at all day. It feels like there's so much grief, it's almost consuming.
“Willow Rose, are you ogling my body?”
I suck in a breath, heat rushing straight to my face. “No,” I blurt. “And—ogling?” The word slips out, and I don't mean to laugh, but I do.
His face lights up instantly, grin wide and triumphant.
“I got you to laugh, didn't I?”
He did, and the frustrating part is that he didn’t even have to put in any effort.
He leans forward to grab something from the bowl, popping it into his mouth without hesitation. A second later, he winces, chewing like it's the most disgusting thing he's tasted. “How do you even eat these?”
I snatch the bowl away from him. “They're good. Don't diss my sweets.”
He swallows, his throat shifting as his Adam's apple moves—and oh. I really shouldn’t be thinking about how attractive he is.
