She should have said something. Yes, no, are you out of your mind—anything.
Instead, Willow looked away.
Not dramatically. Not with some big, cinematic flinch. Her gaze just… slipped from his face to the floor, to the edge of the rug, to the bags still half-open at her feet. Her fingers uncurled from the armrests one at a time, stiff from holding on too tightly. The rocking chair moved under her in a slow, uneven arc, wood creaking softly in the warm, amber light.
She could feel his confession sitting in the air between them like a live wire.
Leave him.
Have me.
In the books, this was where the heroine's spine straightened and everything suddenly became very simple. She would choose love, or she would choose herself, and either way it would come with a neat speech and a sharp cut to the next chapter.
In real life, the only thing that came was nausea.
