He's basically my stepdad.
He leans back again, stretching out, one knee bending and falling open, the fabric of his pyjama bottoms pulling tight over his strong thighs.
The film is completely forgotten now.
“I can think of far better things to eat,” he says casually.
It's probably innocent. Probably. But the way his eyes flick—just briefly—to my lips makes my thighs squeeze together.
Holy water. I need holy water immediately.
“Well,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady as I cross my legs. “I’m perfectly happy with these.”
His eyes follow the movement before shifting to my wrists. Even covered by long sleeves, I feel exposed. He knows. I know he knows. And yet he doesn't say a word.
It's been a week since he found me in the rain, and Sassy still hasn't forgiven me for it. Not that I blame her. That night, I fell asleep for a little while instead of telling him what Rose said. He hasn't pushed as much as I thought he would. Hasn't forced an uncomfortable conversation.
I’m grateful for that.
“When was the last time you ate something?”
I lift a sweet like it's a valid argument. “I’m eating now.”
He frowns, the skin between his brows creasing in a way that makes something in my chest ache. I have the overwhelming urge to smooth it away with my fingers.
“I mean real food,” he says. “Not that plastic shit.”
Rude.
“I don't know.”
“You do.”
I turn my head, but the hand resting along the back of the couch slides towards me, fingers catching my chin. He tilts my face back to his, making him impossible to ignore.
“When was the last time you ate? And don’t make me ask again.”
There's no escaping it. He has this infuriating, unnerving way of knowing when to push—when not to let me hide. Part of me knows he's right. I can feel it in the heaviness of my limbs, the ache that never quite leaves, the sting behind my eyes. The tremor I can't control, no matter how tightly I curl my fingers.
“When you made the pancakes,” I admit.
His expression drops instantly. He drags his free hand down his face, the rough stubble scraping against his palm, frustration rolling off him in waves so thick it almost feels like heat. I hate that it matters to me, that I care; I've upset him.
“Christ, Willow. That was ages ago.”
I bite my lip. “I know. I just… can’t.”
I don't explain the times I've eaten nibbles from the fridge, only to stop the dizziness. Or the days spent in bed, unless he drags me to his garage. I don't go out anymore like I used to, trying to get lost in men to just forget, even if it were just for a little while.
River keeps trying to get me out of the house, but I tell him no every time because I don't want my sadness to seep into his life.
His fingers leave my chin, but they don't retreat. They slide down, settling over my hands—still shaking. I clutch the blanket, and his thumb brushes over my skin, slow and grounding, like he's anchoring me without saying a word.
He's been gentle with me. Constant. Close in a way that draws dirty looks from Rose, though she's been uncharacteristically quiet. It feels like borrowed peace, fragile and temporary, like it could slip through my fingers at any moment.
“We're going out.”
He stands and holds out his hand. I notice, absurdly, that his finger is bare.
