The drive back from the beach carried a softness Willow wasn't used to. Not the suffocating, heavy quiet that sat on her chest during the worst week of knowing about her pregnancy. Not the brittle silence of fear. This was different—lighter, almost contemplative. A quiet that let her breathe for the first time in what felt like hours.
She kept the blanket wrapped around her legs, thumbs brushing over the soft edges. Salt clung faintly to her skin. Her hair, still damp from the sea breeze, stuck to her cheek in unruly strands she didn't bother pushing away. Every now and then her gaze drifted to the window, watching houses and palm trees slide past. It felt like her mind was rearranging furniture in a room she'd been afraid to enter.
Victor didn't speak. He didn't ask questions. He didn't pry.
