Page 71 of Imperfect Arrangement
When Willow closes the book earlier than usual, Quill’s lips turn down. “But Dad’s not even here yet.”
That one word—Dad—hits me harder than it should. Goose bumps rise along my arms as I let it sink in.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Willow’s eyes find mine in the shadows.
I count to five, grounding myself in the moment, before rolling my shoulders. With my hands tucked in my pockets, I step around the doorway and lean casually against the frame, projecting the kind of confidence I don’t exactly feel.
“Is my bug ready for a bedtime story, or has she already worn herself out?”
Quill’s giggle is silent this time, a little shake of her shoulders. My chest tightens, a pang of disappointment creeping in. But I shove it aside, locking it up before it can settle. Today was progress, a step forward. She’ll get there—when she’s ready.
Willow stands, setting the book back on the nightstand. “Your job now is to make sure she actually sleeps. We don’t want her running late for school tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll go check if Captain Lick has forgiven me for leaving him behind with Grandpa Will.”
I give her a two-finger salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
As she moves past me, our eyes briefly meet, and I don’t even try to hide my emotions from her. Then I take her spot beside Quill.
“Alright, Bug. You heard Willow. We need to activate your sleep mode fast tonight.”
Hope is a relentless thing. No matter how many times I remind myself that Quill will speak to me when she’s ready, I can’t stop wishing that moment might be tonight. But as I read, her eyelids grow heavy, and her breathing slows. She drifts off without a word. Yet as I tuck the blanket around her tiny frame and kiss her forehead, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time—a quiet optimism, stronger than anything I’ve found in all the offices of the world’s best therapists.
When I leave Quill’s room, I don’t head to my bedroom. Instead, my feet move on their own, carrying me down the hall to the other wing. The door to her room is cracked open, and there she is, standing in front of the vanity. Willow catches my reflection in the mirror as I step in. She sets the hairbrush down without breaking eye contact.
Before I can second-guess myself, I’m behind her, wrapping her in my arms. “Thank you. Thank you so fucking much.”
The lump in my throat is impossible to ignore, and for once, I don’t even try to swallow it down. Not with her. Not tonight.
“Raymond.” My name falls from her lips, full of surprise. Her hazel eyes meet mine in the mirror, but I don’t let go. Her hands move to rest on mine, soft but grounding, her fingers squeezing gently as though she understands the tidal wave of emotion crashing inside me. “She has such a beautiful voice,” Willow murmurs, barely above a whisper.
“She so fucking does.”
We don’t need more words after that. I just hold her, letting the steady rhythm of her breathing tether me as my racing heart starts to slow. Her presence feels like an anchor in a storm of my emotions. When I finally open my eyes, I find hers still on me. My arms stay locked around her, the worn fabric of her maroon T-shirt soft under my palms. Her night shorts stop mid-thigh, leaving her long legs on display, the dark vine tattoos curling around them like art.
In this moment, Willow looks like she belongs here. In my house. In my arms. That thought should terrify me, but it doesn’t. Not even a little.
Without thinking, I rest my head against her shoulder, pressing a kiss on the fabric there. It’s simple, instinctive, as gratitude and something unnamable swell in my chest, making it hard to breathe. “Thanks.”
Her breath hitches, her grip on my arms tightening, and her voice comes out soft, shaky. “You don’t have to thank me, Raymond. That’s why I’m here.”
She’s right. I brought her into this house, into our lives, with a clear, logical purpose. But that purpose has grown into something so tangled, so intricate, filled with real emotions, it no longer feels like a temporary arrangement.
Her scent—citrus with a hint of sweetness—fills my lungs. It’s soothing, intoxicating, and every second I spend with her, it feels more essential. But I can’t stay here forever, holding her like she’s mine.
She’s not. Even though every part of me wishes she were.
Yet before she steps away, I tilt my chin, letting the roughness of my stubble graze her cheek. Her body stills, a faint tremor running through her.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, her voice low and hesitant.
“In case Quill asks again how you like the feel of her dad’s beard. I want you to give an honest answer.”
Her lips twitch into a faint smile. “Uh-huh, thanks for the reminder. It feels fine.”
I don’t bother hiding my grin as she steps away, reclaiming her space. “So should I go extra close with my razor tomorrow?”
“Raymond Teager taking grooming advice from me? Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Raymond Teager has been doing a lot of things differently since you showed up, Miss Willow Billow Pershing.”
