Willow wasn't expecting the knock.
She had just slipped out of her sneakers, toes curling gratefully against the cool floor as she padded barefoot toward the bathroom. The faded sweater she loved hung loose around her frame, soft from a hundred washes, paired with the jeans she always wore on exhausted nights, her real clothes, the kind that didn't perform for anyone.
Her hair had come undone hours ago, falling in loose waves down her back, wild and soft against the worn sweater. The flight hadn't helped; strands clung to her cheek, the rest tumbling freely to her waist like she'd walked through wind and worry. Her makeup was smudged, half wiped away in Victor's chauffeured car.
She was on autopilot, steps slow, mind frayed. Her pulse hadn't settled since the landing, since she'd stepped out of the car and lied to herself: you're fine. The lie sat heavy in her chest like iron.
She froze as the knock came again, firmer this time.
Not tonight. Not already.
