Gabe
FORTY-TWO
Inotice the shift in her before anyone says a word about it.
That’s the problem with paying attention to someone too closely. Eventually, even their silences become recognizable.
Willow’s quieter this morning.
Not enough for Julian to pick up on, because she still laughs at one of his ridiculous comments about Daisy “emotionally manipulating breakfast opportunities,” and she still rolls her eyes when Xander steals half her toast without asking.
But the energy underneath it is different. Pulled inward.
I watch her from across the kitchen while pretending to read through touring budgets on my tablet.
She’s sitting curled into herself at the island, coffee cupped between both hands even though it’s probably gone cold by now. Her attention drifts in and out of conversations around her, smile delayed by half a second every time someone speaks directly to her.
Thinking too much. Spiraling. I recognize the signs because I do the same thing.
Julian eventually disappears into Studio B after receiving an enthusiastic voice memo from the Wild Hearts drummer, and Xander heads upstairs to take a call from management regarding the new single rollout.
That leaves the kitchen quieter.
Just me. Her. Coffee. The soft morning buzz of the compound settling into another day.
Willow stares out the windows toward the trees beyond the estate.
“You haven’t insulted me in almost twenty minutes,” I say finally. “I’m starting to get concerned.”
Her mouth twitches faintly. “You always notice stuff, huh?”
“Yes.”
“No denial or fake modesty?”
I set the tablet aside and lean back against the counter, studying her carefully. “What’s going on?
“Nothing.”
“Lie.”
She glares weakly over the rim of her mug. “You’re very annoying.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
Her fingers tighten around the coffee cup.
I don’t push.
Pressure only works when people are ready for it.
Instead, I let silence settle naturally between us, calm and unthreatening. The kind that leaves room instead of demanding answers.
Eventually, she sighs. “I’m trying really hard not to freak out.” She looks down at the mug in her hands. “I want this. I do.”
“But?”
She laughs softly without humor. “But my life used to be really simple.” She finally looks up at me again, hazel eyes tired around the edges. “I used to know who I was all the time. Now I feel like I’m constantly reacting to things instead of choosing them.”
I absorb that.
Not the surface statement. The real one underneath it. Loss of control.
“What exactly scares you?” I ask carefully.
Her brows pull together. “All of it?”
“Break it down.”
She watches me, probably realizing what I’m doing. Organizing the problem. Structuring it. Because that’s how I survive things.
“The attention,” she says. “People watching me all the time. Talking about me like they know me.”
I nod once. “Okay.”
“And…” She hesitates. “I miss normal things.”
“Like working at the diner.”
“Yeah.”
“You feel disconnected from your own life,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine. “Yes.”
“What else?”
This time, she takes longer to answer. “What if this falls apart later?”
I lean forward, forearms resting against the counter. “You think we’ll wake up one day and decide this was temporary.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
I understand anyway.
Given the industry she’s watching us from, it’s not an irrational fear. Most relationships in our world are transactional, temporary, built around convenience and proximity instead of substance.
I spent years participating in exactly that.
But this isn’t that. I know it with a certainty that’s become impossible to ignore.
“I can’t promise you nothing will ever get messy,” I say carefully. “That would be dishonest.”
Her expression tightens.
“But,” I continue, “I can tell you none of us are approaching this casually.”
“I know.”
I study her for another moment. “Come with me tonight.”
She blinks. “Where?”
“Walk.”
“That’s ominous.”
“It’s Redemption Falls, not a crime documentary.”
“That sounds exactly like something a murderer would say.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “Come with me anyway.”
By the time night settles over town, Redemption Falls looks more itself again. Lights beam warmly through diner windows. People drift between storefronts. Music spills softly from Bennett’s down the block.
Normal.
Or at least close enough to remind her it still exists.
Willow walks beside me, hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie while cold air brushes through the streets.
No security tonight. No publicists. Just us.
“You know,” I say after a while, “most people misunderstand attention.”
She glances sideways at me. “That sounds ominously philosophical.”
“It’s practical.”
“Of course it is.”
I ignore that.
“People think attention lasts forever because it feels overwhelming when you’re inside it,” I continue. “But the public gets bored quickly.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It should be.”
She exhales softly. “I just don’t know how you guys survived it for so long.”
My gaze shifts toward her briefly. “I got very good at control.”
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I noticed.”
We continue walking through town.
A few people recognize us. Some whisper. Some stare. But nobody approaches.
Willow relaxes gradually beside me, shoulders lowering little by little as the evening settles around us.
Good.
That was the point. So she can see that life doesn’t have to all change.
Then, a camera flash explodes across the street and everything in me hardens. Willow startles beside me.
Standing near the fountain with a phone already lifted toward us is Caitlyn West.
Her expression narrows when she sees recognition cross my face.
“Well,” she says brightly. “This certainly confirms a few things.”
I step in front of Willow.
Caitlyn notices that, too. “There it is. Protective. People are going to love that.”
“Stop filming,” I say evenly.
She keeps recording. “Come on, Gabe. You had to know this would happen eventually.”
My jaw tightens. “This isn’t your story.”
“Oh, I think it very much is now.”
Willow shifts beside me uncomfortably. I feel it immediately.
Caitlyn’s eyes flick toward her. “Fans are obsessed with you, by the way,” she tells Willow casually. “Especially after the podcast.”
“Please stop talking to me like we’re friends,” Willow mutters.
Caitlyn laughs softly. “The article’s running regardless,” she says finally, lowering the phone. “You should’ve just worked with me when I offered it.”
She keeps talking, probably sensing blood in the water now, but I’m no longer listening to her.
I’m watching Willow instead. Watching the exact moment fear starts creeping back into her expression.
And suddenly the only thing I can think about is keeping her away from people like Caitlyn.