Willow's POV
I told myself I wouldn't look at the window again. The thought stayed with me as I lay there, my body tense beneath the covers, my breathing carefully controlled, as if keeping it steady could somehow hold everything else in place.
Ethan was still asleep beside me, his presence solid and familiar, something I should have found comfort in, but instead it only made the awareness sharper, more defined. It felt like I was caught between two different worlds, one grounded and real, the other quiet and unseen, and I didn't fully belong to either of them anymore.
I watched him sleep beside me. He looked calm—but not completely. There was still something in his face, a quiet tension, as if he could wake at any second and spring into action.
He lay on his side, his head turned toward me, close enough that I could hear the soft rhythm of his breathing. His eyes were closed, lashes resting gently against his skin, and strands of his golden hair had fallen carelessly across his forehead, brushing just above his eyes.
One of his hands was tucked beneath his head, supporting it, while the other rested lightly against my side, warm and steady. Even in sleep, there was a sense of awareness about him—like he was never fully unguarded, never entirely at rest.
Still, in that moment, he looked peaceful. Softer than usual. Almost vulnerable.
I held my breath as I slowly reached for his hand, careful not to wake him. My fingers brushed against his, and gently—so gently—I lifted his hand from my side and guided it to his pillow, resting it against my it instead.
For a second, he shifted slightly, and I froze, watching his face for any sign that he might wake. But he didn't. His expression remained calm, his breathing even.
And so I stayed there, close to him, listening to the quiet of the moment, feeling the warmth of his presence just inches away.
I turned to my back.
For a long moment, I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling, forcing myself to stay still, to ignore the pull that had already settled deep inside me. I knew what was there. I had already seen him. Looking again wouldn't change anything, wouldn't make it less real or easier to understand. But the longer I resisted, the stronger the urge became, like something was drawing me back whether I wanted it or not.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, I turned my head.
He was still there, standing in the same place just beyond the glass, as if he hadn't moved at all since the last time I looked. The darkness wrapped around him in a way that made it difficult to see every detail clearly, but his presence was undeniable, solid and real in a way that made my chest tighten. There was no mistaking it now, no way to convince myself it was anything else.
For a second, neither of us moved. The silence between us stretched, heavy and unspoken, filled with something I didn't understand but couldn't ignore. My heart was beating too fast, my fingers curling slightly into the sheets as I held his gaze, unable to look away even though every instinct told me I should.
Then he stepped closer.
The movement was slow and deliberate, closing the small distance that had separated him from the window. My breath caught as he came into clearer view, the faint light from inside the room brushing against his face just enough for me to finally see him properly. And somehow, that made everything worse, because now there was no distance left to hide behind, no doubt, no uncertainty.
He was real, and he was looking directly at me.
My chest tightened as something unfamiliar settled deep inside me, something that wasn't just fear, even though fear was there too, sharp and impossible to ignore. It was something heavier, something that pulled instead of pushed, something that made it harder to look away instead of easier.
Then his lips moved.
At first, I didn't hear anything, just the shape of the word forming silently behind the glass, like he wasn't speaking to the room, but to me, directly and intentionally. My breath slowed, my body going completely still as I focused on him, trying to understand what he was saying, my attention narrowing until nothing else existed.
He said it again, and this time I understood.
"Willow."
My name.
The sound didn't come through the glass, and yet I heard it anyway, clear and unmistakable, like it existed somewhere deeper than sound itself. A sharp chill ran through me, my fingers tightening against the sheets as my mind struggled to catch up with what had just happened. He knew my name, not as a guess, not as a mistake, but with certainty.
A wave of something cold and heavy settled in my chest, fear rising quickly now, stronger than before, pushing against everything else that had been building inside me. This wasn't just someone watching from a distance anymore. This wasn't random or accidental. This was deliberate.
"You shouldn't be here," I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them, barely louder than a whisper. My voice was unsteady in a way I couldn't control, and I didn't even know if he could hear me, if the glass between us mattered at all.
But something told me it didn't.
Because the moment I spoke, his expression shifted slightly, something subtle but unmistakable passing through his eyes, like he had heard every word, like he had been listening the entire time.
"I know."
This time, I heard it.
Not loudly, not clearly, but enough. Enough that the sound of his voice sent a sharp shiver down my spine, my breath catching as something inside me reacted before I could stop it. His voice was low, calm, certain in a way that made everything about it more unsettling, like he wasn't worried about being there, like he had every right to be.
"You have to go," I said again, my voice stronger now even though my body didn't match it, still frozen in place as I stared at him. "You can't just—"
"I've been here longer than you think."
The words cut through mine easily, quiet but absolute, settling into the space between us like something that had always been there, waiting to be said. My stomach dropped at the weight of it, at the implication behind it.
"What does that mean?" I asked, the question leaving my lips before I could stop it, even though part of me wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
He didn't respond right away. He just watched me, and somehow that was worse, because it felt like he was deciding something, like he was choosing how much to tell me and how much to keep for himself.
"You look at me like you don't remember," he said finally, his voice still low, still steady, but carrying something deeper now, something darker that settled beneath the surface of his words. "But you will."
A chill ran through me, sharp and immediate, my heart starting to race again as confusion tangled with fear in a way that made it hard to think clearly.
"I don't know you," I said, shaking my head slightly, even though I didn't move from where I was. "I've never seen you before."
A faint, almost unreadable expression crossed his face. It wasn't anger or surprise, but something else, something harder to define.
"You have," he said quietly.
The certainty in his voice made my chest tighten even more.
"No," I insisted, even though the word felt weaker than it should have. "I would remember."
"Not everything stays where you leave it."
The response didn't make sense, or maybe it did in a way I couldn't fully understand yet, something that sat just out of reach of clarity.
Before I could say anything else, before I could ask what he meant, a shift in the room pulled my attention away for just a second. The sound of movement beside me, quiet but enough to break the moment, made my body react before my thoughts could catch up.
Ethan.
My head turned instinctively, my breath catching as I glanced down at him. He hadn't fully woken up, but he had moved, his presence suddenly more real again, pulling me back into the room.
And when I looked back, he was gone.
The space beyond the window was empty again, the darkness settling back into place like nothing had been there at all. But this time, I knew better, because now it wasn't just a feeling. It wasn't just shadows or reflections or doubt.
He had spoken to me.
He knew my name.
And somehow, without me understanding how or why—
He knew me.