They had a few more hours.
Not the kind that announced themselves as precious, or demanded to be marked, but the quieter kind that slipped past unnoticed until they were almost gone. Ti that did not ask to be filled with aning, only inhabited.
Morning softened into late morning without ceremony. Sunlight shifted across the penthouse in slow incrents, climbing the walls, warming the floors, catching in glass and tal until the space felt awake rather than illuminated. The city below moved on with its usual impatience, traffic threading through streets that did not care whether anyone inside the building was ready to rejoin it yet.
Willow moved through the kitchen barefoot, a mug of coffee warming her hands, the sleeves of Zane’s shirt pushed up her arms without thought. She opened cabinets she did not need, straightened nothing in particular, and paused more than once simply to stand still and listen to the quiet hum of a ho that had survived interruption.
Zane sat on the sofa with a blanket folded neatly over his legs, posture relaxed but deliberate, as though he were still learning where rest ended and vigilance began. His phone lay face down on the table, unanswered and ignored, a rare act of restraint that felt less like discipline and more like choice.
"What are you looking at?" Willow asked without turning around.
"I am supervising," he replied calmly.
She smiled. "Of ."
"Of the morning," he corrected. "You look like you are about to reorganize sothing aggressively."
"I was thinking about folding laundry."
"That is not reassuring."
She crossed the space between them and leaned down, pressing a kiss to his temple that was brief and easy, the kind that carried no agenda. He caught her wrist gently before she could move away, his fingers warm and steady.
"We are still all right," he said.
It was not a question. It was not reassurance either. It was a careful placent of sothing fragile, a truth neither of them was ready to examine too closely.
Willow understood that imdiately.
"Yes, Zane," she said, deliberately light, deliberately wrong. "We are sharing space now. Until you get better. Then I plan to have my evil way with you."
He lifted an eyebrow, and let it stand. "That sounds threatening."
"It is ant to," she replied, smiling.
He exhaled slowly, amusent and relief braided together. "That does not sound functional at all."
"Give it ti," she said. "Your mother is bringing supplies. That should restore balance."
"She always does."
They settled again, not touching but close enough to feel each other’s presence, the quiet stretching comfortably between them. Willow perched on the arm of the sofa, her knee brushing his shoulder as she sipped her coffee, eyes drifting to the window where the city shimred in late-morning haze.
It was strange, she thought, how normal this felt already. How quickly crisis receded when the body stopped sounding alarms. How intimacy returned not as a declaration, but as habit. As proximity. As shared silence that did not need defending.
Zane shifted slightly beneath the blanket, attentive to limits he had learned the hard way. He watched her openly now, without the guardedness that had once shaped his attention, as though allowing himself to take in details he might have missed before. The way she balanced on the edge of the sofa arm when thinking. The way her mouth curved faintly even when her expression was neutral. The way she occupied space as though she had earned the right to remain in it.
"You are staring," she said, glancing at him.
"You are beautiful," he replied.
She snorted softly. "I am in your shirt with no makeup."
"Co closer," he said. "I need to verify."
She leaned in instead, just enough for him to feel the warmth of her knee against his shoulder, the humor softening into sothing quieter. "That is allowed."
They might have stayed like that longer if the building had not announced itself with a soft chi from the private elevator down the hall. The sound was distant but unmistakable, a polite warning that the world was preparing to intrude.
Willow looked toward the hallway, then back at him. "That will be them. Let put sothing more suitable on."
Zane nodded. "Jordan is punctual to the point of intimidation."
She disappeared into the bedroom and returned minutes later, just as the doorbell rang.
The family driver entered first, already moving with practiced efficiency, clearing space and setting bags down with quiet precision. Jordan followed close behind, suit immaculate, posture exact.
"Clear path," he announced calmly.
Behind him ca the procession: insulated containers, crates, and stacked bags that seed to multiply as they crossed the threshold. The scent of ho-cooked food reached the room before Lorrlyne did, rich and unmistakable, carrying with it the promise of abundance and unapologetic excess.
Then Lorrlyne arrived.
She entered with effortless authority, coat immaculate, gaze already assessing Zane with clinical accuracy. In front of her, she guided a stroller.
Willow lifted a hand to her mouth. "Oh no."
Zane laughed before he could stop himself. "She has upgraded."
Zana sat enthroned in pink, strapped into her stroller with regal composure, oversized designer sunglasses perfectly in place. One tiny leg was crossed over the other, her posture suggesting deep boredom with the effort of arriving anywhere she did not already own.
"She looks like she is late for a fashion shoot," Willow murmured, already moving toward her. She lifted Zana gently from the stroller, raining kisses across her cheeks and forehead the mont she had her in her arms.
"She looks like she owns the building," Zane replied.
"She probably does."
Lorrlyne paused just long enough to deliver her assessnt, her gaze moving over Zane with clinical precision.
"You look upright," she observed.
"I am sitting," Zane replied.
"Progress," she said. "You look alive."
"I feel supervised," he added lightly, glancing at Willow. "She won’t let do much moving."
He finished with a wicked wink.
Willow shot him a look that translated clearly to not now.
Lorrlyne, however, smiled.
"Good," she said. "That ans you are recovering."
Willow shifted, bringing Zana closer to her father.
Zana lifted one tiny hand and tapped Zane’s face, fingers exploratory and insistent.
Willow laughed, helpless. "She is unbelievable."
"Co here, Princess," Zane said softly.
Zana removed her sunglasses with deliberate drama and fixed him with a stare that held all the accusation, relief, and absolute ownership an almost four-month-old baby could muster.
Zane lifted her carefully, settling her against his chest. Zana imdiately gripped his shirt, pressing her cheek into him as though confirming he was solid, present, and not leaving again.
Lorrlyne watched, satisfied but unsentintal.
Jordan resud unloading supplies without missing a beat. "There is enough food for at least ten days," he said. "Possibly two weeks. Everything is labeled."
Willow blinked. "Of course, it is."
"You will not need to think about als," Lorrlyne said. "Thinking is not productive right now."
The penthouse filled with movent and sound. Containers stacked. Cupboards filled. Surfaces claid. The quiet they had guarded all morning gave way to warmth and controlled chaos.
Zane caught Willow’s eye over Zana’s head.
Later, he mouthed.
She smiled back.
They had had their hours.
Now ca life.
And for the first ti in a long while, it felt like exactly the right order.
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