The next morning came too quickly, dragging Willow out of a shallow, restless sleep. Her body felt heavy, as if the night had left bruises on her bones instead of just her wrists. She showered longer than necessary, letting the hot water steam the pain out of her muscles, pretending she didn't notice how her stomach turned the moment she lifted her head. She blamed exhaustion. She blamed nerves. She blamed everything except the truth that hovered too close.
By the time she dressed for work, her reflection looked different. Colder. Sharper. The soft ache in her chest from last night was still there, but she buried it beneath a layer of deliberate, icy composure. Control was something you put on like a coat. She intended to wear it all day.
