Willow opened the door before she was fully ready.
She told herself she was composed, that her hair was smooth, her lipstick even, her breathing steady. But the moment Zane stood in the doorway—tall, buttoned-up in a charcoal jacket, eyes warm and searching—the world staggered around her. The air felt too thin. Her ribs felt too tight. For one dreadful second she thought he would see everything: the lingering tremor in her hands, the faint redness on her wrists, the ghost of Miles's desperate breath still clinging to her skin.
He didn't.
Or maybe he did—
and just didn't know what to name it yet.
He stared at her like he'd been starving. His gaze swept her slowly, reverently, as though memorizing her silhouette before she could change her mind and vanish. Something inside him came undone right in front of her, subtle but unmistakable, like watching a man relearn how to exhale.
"You look…" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "Beautiful."
