Willow did not go ho.
After Lorrlyne settled Zana into the guest bedroom and closed the door gently behind her, Willow remained standing in the hallway, her coat still draped over one arm, her bag resting at her feet where she had let it fall. The house around her was warm and quietly occupied, the kind of warmth that ca from being lived in rather than curated. The faint scent of clean linen mixed with sothing herbal drifted from the kitchen, steady and familiar in a way that eased her breathing without her having to think about it.
It felt held in a way she had not realized she needed until she was inside it.
Her own ho had not felt like that in days. It was not emptier in Zane’s absence, but more exacting, as though every room were waiting for her to explain herself. The quiet there did not soften or settle. It watched. Silence no longer offered rest or privacy. It carried implication, like a question asked and left unanswered. Every space still held him, undiluted by ti, and the bed had beco a place she avoided not because it was unfamiliar, but because it knew her too well.
She could not face that tonight.
"May I stay the night?" she asked finally, her voice low and carefully neutral. Then, after a pause she could not quite contain, she added, "I don’t think I can bear an empty house tonight."
The words landed more exposed than she intended, stripped of the control she usually relied on, but they were honest in a way that did not allow revision.
Lorrlyne studied her for a mont, not with alarm or pity, but with the steady attention of soone who recognized strain without needing it explained. Then she nodded, already accepting the request as inevitable.
"Of course," she said simply.
That was all it took.
Sleep ca unevenly.
Willow lay on the narrow guest bed staring at the ceiling, the unfamiliar room offering no refuge from her thoughts. Rain tapped steadily against the window, its rhythm hovering just shy of comfort. When sleep finally claid her, it did not arrive as rest.
It arrived as return.
The dream did not begin with the crash. It never did. Instead, it carried her back to the mont just before everything fractured, to that suspended second where her body had already understood what her mind refused to na. She sat in the passenger seat, rain streaking the windshield, the road slick beneath the headlights. The air inside the car felt tight, weighted with a disagreent sharpened down to civility.
They had been arguing without raising their voices.
Miles’ words were clipped and precise, arranged carefully to sound reasonable while dismissing everything she was trying to say. He spoke about priorities, about timing, about how her concerns complicated things that did not need complication. Willow responded just as quietly, pointing out what had already been eroded, how postponent had beco habit, how accommodation had started to feel expected rather than chosen.
Neither of them shouted.
That was what made it dangerous.
The semi truck appeared too suddenly, its bulk filling the windshield, its presence undeniable. Willow felt it before she saw it, a surge of instinct demanding distance, demanding the wheel turn away.
Instead, it turned toward.
In the dream, the motion unfolded slowly enough to register. Miles’ hands tightened on the steering wheel, not in panic, not in error, but with intention so precise it stopped her breath. The wheel angled toward the truck rather than away from it, aligning the car with the oncoming force.
Understanding struck with brutal clarity.
This was not a mistake.
This was not loss of control.
The impact never ca. The dream did not need it. It held her in that unbearable fraction of ti where she knew the passenger side would absorb the violence, where her body would take the brunt of a decision she had not made.
Then Miles was no longer in the car.
He stood too close now, his presence crowding her space even without contact. People surrounded him, indistinct and faceless, their attention orbiting him in quiet approval. Their laughter blended together, low and constant, and it made her skin crawl.
Miles smiled at her.
Not warmly.
Not openly.
It was a restrained smile, curved with possession rather than affection, satisfaction rather than joy. His voice slid through the dark, the words indistinct, but their aning unmistakable. It was mockery wrapped in certainty, amusent sharpened into control.
A calm assumption that she had never fully belonged to herself, that her autonomy had always been conditional, sothing granted rather than owned.
She tried to speak.
She tried to say his na.
No sound erged.
Her throat locked around the syllable, her body suspended between intention and failure. Panic surged as she strained forward, every effort burning through her legs and chest and hands, yet nothing translated into movent. It felt as though the ground itself refused to release her.
Then Zane.
Always Zane.
He stood several steps away, clearer than anything else in the dream, his presence drawing focus without force. He was smiling, those familiar dimples deepening in his cheeks, his sky blue eyes crinkling slightly at the corners in the way that always made her heart react before her mind. The sight of him stirred sothing in her body that the rest of the dream had numbed.
His hand was extended.
Waiting.
His face was open, unguarded, patient in a way that had once made her feel safe rather than examined. There was no urgency in him, no demand hidden beneath reassurance. Only the quiet belief that she would co when she was ready.
She tried.
Her body would not respond.
Her feet remained rooted, heavy and uncooperative. The space between them stretched without changing distance, elastic and cruel. She pushed harder, desperation climbing her ribs as the effort to reach him turned painful.
Zane waited.
He did not rush her. He did not step closer. He did not retreat. He waited the way he always did, with patience that assud she could move if given enough ti.
That was what broke her.
Waiting required faith.
Waiting assud she would make it.
Her muscles trembled as seconds stretched without aning. Panic sharpened as the distance refused to close.
Then sothing in Zane’s expression shifted.
Not anger.
Not disappointnt.
Understanding.
A quiet acceptance crossed his face, gentle enough to hurt more than bla. His hand lowered slowly, fingers uncurling as though releasing sothing fragile he had hoped to keep. He nodded once, not to her, but to the mont itself.
Then he turned away.
He did not look back.
Willow woke with a sharp gasp, her heart pounding violently against her ribs, tears already sliding down her face. The sheets were twisted around her legs, her hands clenched so tightly her fingers ached.
For several seconds, the room refused to return.
Then it did.
The guest bedroom. The faint outline of unfamiliar furniture. Rain tracing narrow paths down the window. The house quiet in the way only sleeping houses ever were.
She sat up slowly, drawing air into her lungs until the pressure in her chest loosened enough to endure. Her hands shook as she pressed them against her thighs, anchoring herself to the present.
That dream had been gone for over a year. The accident dreams had faded first. Then Miles.
Zane had never appeared in them before. That frightened her more than the rest.
She wiped her face and rose, pulling a chair to the window. Sitting sideways in it, knees drawn close, she watched the rain slide down the glass. This was not grief. It was not longing.
It was fear resurfacing in a new shape.
After the accident, sothing in her had hardened quietly. Not her mind. Not her competence. Her tolerance. The part of her that once leaned into closeness without calculating the cost had learned to brace instead.
Control had not co from pride. It had co from survival.
She rested her forehead briefly against the cool glass, breathing until the tremor eased. Loving Zane did not feel dangerous because he demanded too much. It felt dangerous because with him, she wanted to give too much.
That was the truth she could not soften.
When she finally returned to bed, the rain had slowed to a steady hush. Sleep ca carefully this ti, shallow but uninterrupted. Her body did not brace itself against impact as it usually did.
For now, that was enough.
User Comments
0 comments from readers