Chapter 5
Elijah
It's been one hell of a week.
Since Rivers' game—where I had to all but haul Willow away before she did something reckless with that prick—she's shut me out completely. Not a word. Not a glance. She disappears into her room and stays there, as if she makes herself small enough, the world will forget she exists.
Don't know how that would even be possible.
The only time I see her is when she slips out to grab food for Sassy. Quiet. Guarded. Gone again before I can even think of what to say.
Rose swanned off on a spa break for two weeks with her group of equally insufferable friends, forgetting—again—that the world doesn't pause just because she wants cucumber water and a massage. Which also means I’m stuck waiting to hand her the divorce papers, and that delay alone is enough to put me in a foul mood.
I’m counting down the days until I’m no longer married to that soul-sucking excuse for a wife.
The kind of woman who spreads her legs for every Tom, Dick and Harry—as long as they aren't her husband.
Not that it matters to me anymore. I haven't wanted her in a long time. Longer than I care to admit.
Hookups also aren't my thing. Never were. I’m too old for empty bodies and meaningless fucks. Women in this place don't do it for me; I have never wanted another woman. No one has ever caught my attention like—.
I stop that thought before it finishes.
Because wanting is dangerous, and I've already made enough mistakes to last a lifetime. Not like she would ever be a mistake—but it still can't happen. Not now. Right now, the only thing that matters is her finding her feet again. Finding herself. And that starts today.
I finish up breakfast, flipping the last pancake onto the plate and drowning the stack in syrup. Excessive? Probably. Necessary? Absolutely. The girl has a sweet tooth the size of a small country.
“Morning,” River mutters, dragging himself into the kitchen with his football bag slung over one shoulder, eyes half-closed.
“You got in late last night,” I say, sliding the plate across the counter as he drops into the chair.
“I regret it already,” he groans.
I lean back against the counter. “Maybe stop taking your uncle's advice.” I love my brother, but he's a manwhore who runs a bar just so he can pick up women.
River just grunts, shovelling a frankly alarming amount of pancake into his mouth. “Has she come out of her room today?”
The question is casual, but I can hear the worry behind it.
“No,” I answer. “So, I’m taking her breakfast up. Make sure she eats. Gets changed. At least get her to see some daylight.”
He winces. “Good luck with that. You know how stubborn she is.”
That I do. Too well.
“Just… be careful with her. I’m worried she's going to get to the point where there's no turning back. Her love for everything has gone. She doesn't dance anymore, and you know how much she loves to.”
I walk over and clamp my hand on his shoulder, proud of how big his heart is for his sister, for everyone. The only reason I know so much is from the stories he's told.
“Don't worry too much; let me handle it. I’ll see you tonight, and don't die at training.” I ruffle his hair as he pushes me off with a laugh.
Taking the plate and her coconut latte, I head upstairs to her room.
The house feels heavier the higher I go, quieter in a way that presses in on my chest. I stop outside her door and wait, giving myself a moment to see if I can hear anything inside.
Then I hear it.
A sound that shouldn't come from someone so young. Soft, broken, dragged straight from the lungs. She's crying and all alone.
She shouldn't be alone. Not after everything—especially not after losing her father. Rose doesn't care, and she never has, no matter how much I force the issue. But I do. Always have and always will, even if she doesn't believe it.
I tap the door lightly with my foot. The sobs stop instantly, but there's nothing else, just silence. I try again.
Nothing.
“Willow,” I call out softly. “I know you're in there.”
A meow, followed by a quiet, muffled voice. “No, I’m not.”
I shake my head, a small, rueful grin tugging at my lips. Stubborn woman.
“Open the door,” I press gently. “Please.”
“No.”
Well, I was expecting that. Most people would just give up, but I’m a stubborn ass.
“I have coffee and pancakes.”
“I’m not hungry.” Her voice is closer now, just on the other side of the door.
I huff, trying to hide my frustration behind a thin layer of control. “I didn't want to do this, but if you don't open this door soon, I will knock it down.”
“You wouldn't."
“Oh, I would, princess. I don't just cook for anyone.”
Truth is, I hate cooking, but I am pretty damn good at it.
There's no movement, no creak of the hinges, and I’m seconds away from downing this coconut shit myself.
“One.”
“Just go away.”
“Two.” I hear the soft click of the lock, and the door creaks open just enough for me to see her.
Willow stands there, trembling slightly, her pale skin looking sickly in the sliver of light that peeks through the window.
Her cheeks are streaked with tears, blotchy and raw, and her green eyes are swollen and glassy.
Her lips are chapped and sore, probably from biting them, and her hair falls messily around her face, strands sticking to damp cheeks.
She looks smaller somehow, fragile in a way that hurts me.
I just want to hug her and make every bit of her sadness disappear.
“Step back,” I murmur, keeping my voice low, steady. She doesn't resist—just shifts to the side, pale fingers brushing against the doorframe. I push it open gently, careful not to startle her, and place the plate of pancakes and steaming coconut latte on her bedside table.
The smell of syrup and coffee fills the room, cutting through the heaviness and odd smell.
I move to the windows, drawing back the curtains and sliding them open.
Fresh air sweeps in as I push the windows open, carrying a hint of the world outside, a reminder that life keeps moving even when grief tries to trap you.
I glance back to see her standing in the same place, her green eyes on me. Sassy sprawls across the sheets, completely ignoring what's going on.
“Eat,” I tell her, folding my arms as she looks between me and the plate. “Before it gets cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Right on cue, her stomach betrays her with a loud, unmistakable growl. I keep my face neutral, but it takes effort not to smirk.
“Clearly,” I notice the way her cheeks slightly redden. “Now eat it, or I’ll feed you myself.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “Has anyone ever told you you're really bossy?”
“Once or twice.” I tilt my head slightly. “Now, stop trying to distract me. Eat them, drink that monstrosity, and then get yourself in the shower.”
I don't miss the way she picks at her nails, tearing at them like she's trying to peel herself out of her own skin. Or the way she trembles, subtle but constant—too little food and sugar, too many sleepless nights. It only confirms what I already knew. I’m glad I drowned those pancakes in syrup.
She needs it, whether she admits it or not.
She exhales slowly; the fire she threw at me the other week is completely gone. “Just… get out.”
I bite the inside of my lip. I knew this wouldn't be easy. I know if I step back now and let her disappear into herself any further, I won't be surprised to find her in a hospital bed. Or worse—buried next to Leon.
Her father.
“I’ve given you weeks,” I tell her quietly. “I know you're hurting, and I’m not asking you to like me or even talk to me.” I take a step closer, not crowding her, just enough that she has to hear me. “I’m asking you to look after yourself.”
There's no response; she just looks to the side.
“And if you won't,” I continue, firmer now. “Then I will have to.” My eyes don't leave her face. “You can swear at me. You can hit me. Hell, you can hate me as much as you like for the rest of your life if that makes it easier. But I'm not letting you lose yourself. Not on my watch.”
The room falls quiet again, thick with the sound of her breathing.
Tears keep slipping down her freckled cheeks, and my heart cracks open.
I look away for a second because if Rose were here right now, I’d tear into her without hesitation.
A grieving daughter abandoned like this is unforgivable.
I’m reminded again how blinded I was and how idiotic my past choices were.
Hindsight is a bitch.
Eventually, Willow turns her head to look at me. Her voice was hoarse, barely there. “What coffee is it?”
“Coconut, your…” I start.
“Favourite,” she finishes for me, like she's shocked that I know.
The feeling I get from just that one word hits me straight in the ribs, and the emotion it evokes causes my breath to shudder. Absolutely not, I push it back down and ignore it.
She still doesn't move, so I cross the room and lift the mug myself, holding it out to her. After a beat, she takes it. Her fingers brush mine—light, fleeting—but I feel it anyway. She keeps her gaze on the cup, but doesn't move away from me.
It's a start. I’ll take it.
“I’ll wait downstairs,” I tell her, already turning toward the door, forcing myself not to linger too long. Being this close makes me feel things I don't have the right to.
“Wait, why are you waiting for me?” she asks, a tinge of annoyance in her voice.
“I’m taking you to work with me.”
I don't wait for the argument I know is coming. I shut the door softly behind me, heading downstairs to wait for her. Even if it takes all day, I will wait.
Leon and I used to talk about opening a garage together all the time.
Multiple ones, like I own now, and I ruined that before it ever had the chance to exist. Although I know he kept working, opening his own up in Newquay, building an incredible life with her.
The pang of regret I have for my choices is one I know all too well and something I will always live with.
If I can give Willow even a fraction of that familiarity—something that feels like him, like home—then I’ll do it. No matter what.