Amusement hums through me as I glance at Quinn. “She does taste good,” I say casually, then let my eyes narrow at Quinn, a playful edge despite the seriousness underneath. “But she also tastes like mine.”
I can't change the past. They're friends now. And I trust Willow completely. Still, I’m a man absolutely obsessed with his woman, and the thought of anyone else touching her like that doesn't sit well in my gut.
Quinn lifts her hands in surrender. “Roger that, hottie. Do all of your brothers look like you and Ezra? I bet your mum is ridiculously pretty—”
Willow groans loudly and grabs her arm, dragging her away before she can keep going.
She really is a walking mouth with no filter.
I rub my eyes, trying to reset myself. I’m still wound tight and hard from no relief. Now I need to go and sit back at the table with Willow's taste on my tongue, while looking at Rose pretending everything is fine between us.
Chapter 25
Willow
2 years ago
“Glioblastoma is incurable and, unfortunately, the most aggressive type of cancer.”
Dr Hammond’s voice is gentle, practised. The kind of voice you develop after saying the same devastating sentence to too many families for too many years.
The office is painfully white—white walls, white blinds, white cabinets. Every surface feels clinical, stripped of anything remotely comforting. Posters line the walls—diagrams of brains, charts of tumour growth, leaflets fanned neatly across the desk, all screaming the same word over and over again.
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
Dr Hammond is bald, with small glasses perched on his nose, deep lines carved into his face. He looks kind. Tired. Like a man who has watched hope walk out of this room more times than he can count.
But none of it is registering.
When Dad first told me what they thought it might be, I went with him for the biopsy. I told myself I needed to be there, needed to see through it from the start.
And when this appointment came around, I insisted on coming again. I convinced myself that hearing it straight from the doctor would make it easier to process. More real. More… manageable. Like, if I understood it properly, I could somehow control it.
But deep down, beneath all that forced logic, I was clinging to one stupid, fragile hope.
That they're all wrong.
Sadly, they aren't.
“There are treatments we can offer,” Dr Hammond continues carefully. “As I mentioned before, they won't cure it. They may simply buy you some time.”
Time.
The word echoes in my head like it means nothing.
“How much time?” I ask, my fingers digging into the skin of my wrist, nails scraping back and forth, back and forth, like if I focus on that sensation, I won't fall apart.
For the first time since sitting down, I force myself to look at him properly instead of the walls that feel like they're closing in on me.
“I can't give you an exact answer,” he says softly.
“I’m not asking for exact,” I snap. “Just… give me something.”
“Willow.” Dad's hand wraps around mine, stilling my wrist before I can scratch myself raw. His thumb presses into my skin, grounding and warm.
I swallow hard, blinking fast.
“I just want to know.” I focus on the doctor, my throat burning. “I need to know.”
