Chapter 6 Cast
CAST
I keep catching myself looking at her. At the small smile she doesn’t realize she’s wearing.
It’s the same one she used to give me years ago—when she still blushed if I brushed her hand, when I thought saying I love you was the bravest thing I’d ever done.
Now it hits me the same way it did back then—sharp, warm, impossible to breathe through.
The air smells of pine sap and woodsmoke, the kind of winter that bites deep if you inhale too fast. Willow walks beside me, her gloved hands buried in her coat pockets, her scarf still crooked from when I jerked her into me earlier.
Her breath comes out in small clouds, catching the light before disappearing. I watch the curve of her cheek, the way the sunlight turns the strands of her hair to copper under the gray sky. She looks peaceful, but I know better. Willow only looks calm when she’s thinking too much.
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I pull it out, thumb swiping across the screen.
Damien: Taking the kids and Vincent for a late lunch. Take your time.
I stare at the message for a second, then huff out a laugh that fogs the air. Subtle as ever.
Willow glances up at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “Damien’s running interference.”
She frowns. “Interference?”
“They went to get lunch.” I nudge her gently with my shoulder. “Means we’ve got time.”
Her brow lifts, cautious but curious. “You told him to?”
“No. He just knows.”
Her lips part like she wants to say something, but the wind rushes between us, pulling at her scarf, and the moment stretches thin.
I didn’t expect that text to hit the way it does. Gratitude isn’t something I’m good at. Not the soft kind. But lately, Damien and Vincent both have been trying in their own ways—to give me room with her, to make space instead of fighting for it.
And I don’t take that lightly.
The lot empties out as the afternoon dips closer to evening. Families pile trees onto car roofs, kids tugging at mittens and coats. A golden light spreads over everything—the kind that looks like nostalgia before it even fades.
Willow tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks pink from the cold. “So what else do you have planned for us, sir?” she teases, her voice low but playful.
We wander toward the far end of the field, where the pines grow closer together, the snow untouched except for the narrow path our boots carve through it. The chatter of the lot fades behind us, replaced by the steady crunch of snow and the whisper of wind through the trees.
I glance sideways at her, the edge of a smile tugging at my mouth. “I still haven’t seen the gallery.”
She stops short, eyes going wide with surprise. “You haven’t?”
“Want to show it to me?” I ask, smiling at the beam of excitement rushing through her.
Her whole face lights up—cheeks pink, eyes bright, the cold catching her breath and turning it into little clouds of joy. She steps closer until her shoulder brushes my arm, her glove nudging against mine before she catches my hand and locks our fingers together.
“Then you better call an Uber,” she says, her voice soft but charged, the words curling in the space between us like something secret.
For a moment, I don’t move. Just look at her—the way the dying light catches the edges of her hair, the way her nose crinkles when she smiles, the way every bit of her energy feels like fire under all this cold. She looks happy. Free, even. And it’s been too long since I’ve seen her like this.
My heart kicks once, hard.
The golden light deepens as the sun dips lower, turning the snow amber and the pines almost black in contrast. I have to force my eyes away from it to pull my phone out of my pocket and call an Uber Black that will be here in two minutes.
Willow leans her head briefly against my shoulder, our joined hands swinging between us. “You’re going to like it,” she sings, skipping ahead. “It’s not perfect, but it feels like me.”
“I like anything that feels like you,” I admit, surprising even myself with the honesty in it.
She tilts her head up, giving me that small, knowing smile that always knocks the air out of me.
The wind picks up, swirling fine snow around our boots. I tighten my hold on her hand, grounding both of us in the moment.
“Come on,” I murmur, sliding the phone back into my coat pocket. “Let’s go see what you’ve been hiding from me.”
She laughs softly and tugs me toward the path, boots crunching over snow. The setting sun catches in her hair, throwing sparks of light around us.
The drive takes fifteen minutes, but it feels shorter.
Willow spends half of it pointing out Christmas lights strung over the shopfronts, talking about how the city feels softer in December, and how she wants to host a winter showcase next year. Her hands move when she talks—animated, alive, painting shapes in the air. I mostly just watch.
The Uber turns down a narrow street lined with old brick buildings dressed in wreaths and warm light. The kind of street that looks like it belongs to another time. The driver slows in front of a glass storefront with a brass sign gleaming faintly under the streetlight.
The Willow Garden.
“Here,” she says, already reaching for the handle. “Oh—you’re not ready.”
“Apparently not,” I say, but she’s already out of the car, boots crunching against the snow.
I pay the driver and follow her up the short walkway. She fumbles with her keys, bouncing slightly in place like she’s trying to contain too much energy. When the lock clicks open, she glances over her shoulder, eyes bright with something childlike and fierce all at once.
“Ready?”
“Show me,” I say.
She pushes the door open.
The scent hits first—paint, paper, faint wood polish, and something floral I can’t name but know is hers. The air is warmer inside, thick with light and color.
The space is wide and open, divided by old brick pillars and hanging lights that drip soft gold over polished concrete floors.
Her paintings line the walls—big, unapologetic pieces alive with movement and color.
Not the small, careful work she used to sell at fairs or hang in side galleries. These are hers.
To the right, an entire section is devoted to abstracts—swirls of gold and indigo, sharp lines softened by watercolor haze.
To the left, portraits—some familiar, some not. A small boy with honey-colored curls chasing a balloon. A woman sitting in a field of marigolds, her face turned toward a sun that isn’t there. A wolf half emerging from smoke.
In the center stands a sculpture—metal and glass interwoven, catching the light in a dozen fractured reflections. The base bears no plaque, no title. It doesn’t need one. It’s the kind of piece that demands to be felt, not explained.
Farther back, a long wooden table displays ceramic work and framed sketches—pieces from local artists, some signed in looping cursive, others anonymous.
I recognize a few names—painters she’s mentored, sculptors she’s championed.
The Willow Garden isn’t just hers. She’s made it a home for everyone else who ever felt like their art didn’t belong anywhere.
She spins once in the center of the room, cheeks flushed, laughter spilling out unguarded. “Well?” she asks, breathless. “What do you think?”
I take it all in again—the way the light spills across her canvases, the soft music humming from a speaker near the desk, the little details only she would think of: the lemon-oil scent from polished wood frames, the dried lavender in a glass vase near the window, the faint brushstroke fingerprints along the doorway that she probably never noticed she left.
“It’s you,” I say finally. “All of it.”
Her smile falters, just slightly. “That’s a good thing, right?”
“It’s the best thing.”
She exhales, tension slipping from her shoulders. “I thought maybe it was too much. Too bright. Too—”
“No, it's perfect.” I interrupt, raising an eyebrow.
She laughs softly, her cheeks turning pink. “Thank you.”
The light from the ceiling catches her eyes—green and gold, alive.
She’s still wearing her scarf, still glowing from the cold, but she looks different here.
Grounded. This is the version of her I think I love most—the one that doesn’t try to be anyone’s muse or miracle.
The one that builds beauty with her own hands.
When she pauses for breath, I step behind her, letting my hand rest gently at the small of her back. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
She looks up at me, surprised. “For what?”
“For this. For all of it.” I look down into her glowing eyes. “I’m proud of you angel.”
She blinks at me, and for a second the shine in her eyes looks like reflection from the lights. Her breath catches, and she presses the heel of her palm against her mouth like she’s trying to stop the emotion before it spills.
“Don’t cry angel,” I whisper cupping her cheeks and wiping her tears away with my thumb.
“It’s happy tears,” she whispers, grabbing my wrist. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
She pulls me through the narrow hall at the back of the gallery, past half-finished canvases leaning against the wall and a table littered with brushes, jars of pigment, and a mug stained with paintwater. The air smells like linseed oil and rosemary soap, like creation caught mid-breath.
At the end of the hall, she stops in front of a covered frame resting on its easel. Her fingers tremble slightly as she takes the corner of the drape and glances at me over her shoulder. “You’re the first to see it.”
She pulls the cloth away.
The canvas beneath steals the air straight from my chest.
It’s a winter landscape—bare branches, soft snow, a path that begins in shades of black and gray and gradually blooms into color.
From one edge to the other, the world transforms—ashen sky to dawn, frost to thaw, emptiness to light.
It feels alive, as though if you stood too close, the paint would warm beneath your breath.