"The right people stay."
Dominic
𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

Waking up feels different.

It's not the usual groggy, hungover mess of a morning where my mouth tastes like regret, and my body is stiff from passing out in places I shouldn't have. It's not like the mornings where I wake up alone, mind already racing, body aching for something to take the edge off.

No, this morning, I wake up to her.

Willa is wrapped around me, her face tucked into my chest, her breath warm against my skin. My shirt is loose on her, slipping off one shoulder, her fingers still clutching the fabric like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.

As if I could ever leave her again.

I tighten my arm around her waist, pressing my nose into her hair, inhaling the faint scent of something sweet—vanilla and sugar, like the cupcakes she used to bring me when we were kids.

She stirs, shifting closer, pressing herself deeper into me like she's trying to crawl under my skin. Her bare leg slides against mine, and I groan quietly, my hand flexing against the small of her back.

A little sigh escapes her lips, soft and sleepy. Then, slowly, she peeks up at me, her green eyes still heavy with sleep, her lips curving into a lazy, satisfied smile.

And fuck, if that smile doesn't knock the wind right out of me.

"Morning," she murmurs, her voice raspy and warm.

I grunt, fingers slipping under the hem of my shirt that's drowning her, finding her warm skin. "Morning, butterfly."

She shivers.

Yeah. She likes that.

I smirk, watching her eyes flutter shut for a second before she blinks up at me again, something shifting in her expression.

She fists my shirt tighter, like she's holding me here.

"You're not leaving my sight," she announces, firm.

I blink, caught off guard. "What?"

She huffs, shifting up onto her elbows, hovering over me now. Her hair tumbles over her shoulder, brushing against my chest as she stares me down. "You left once." Her voice wavers, but her expression doesn't. "I'm not letting you do it again."

My chest tightens, a sharp, unbearable ache forming there.

She acts all sunshine and light, all teasing remarks and careless giggles, but I know her. I know the cracks underneath. The things she won't say out loud.
And the fact that I put that look on her face? The fact that I made her doubt whether I'd stay?

It fucking guts me.

I sit up slightly, my hand reaching to cup the back of her neck, tugging her closer. "Not going anywhere, butterfly."

Her breath catches, her lips parting slightly.

She searches my face, like she's trying to find any sign that I'm lying. But I'm not. I never was.

"Promise?" she whispers.

"Promise," I rasp, my forehead pressing against hers.

And then she smiles—wide and unguarded—and suddenly, her lips are on mine.

It's not like last night. It's not desperate or frantic. It's slow. Deep. Like she's trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the way I taste, the way I feel.
Like she's claiming me.

I groan into the kiss, my fingers slipping into her hair, tugging her even closer. She hums, her hands sliding over my shoulders, nails lightly scratching down my back.

It's a mess of lazy kisses, tangled limbs, sleepy murmurs. And then she pulls back slightly, just enough to press another soft kiss to the corner of my mouth before whispering against my lips, "You're mine now, Dominic West."

Something clicks in my chest. A steady, solid feeling I haven't had in years.

I smirk, flipping her onto her back, pinning her underneath me as I kiss my way down her throat. "That right, butterfly?"

She grins, arching into me. "Mhm."

"Officially?" I tease, my lips dragging along her jaw.

She lets out a breathless laugh. "Yeah."

A pause. Then, she grins, all smug and radiant.

"You're my boyfriend now."

The word nearly knocks me on my ass.

Boyfriend.

Like we're kids again, like things aren't messy and complicated. Like this is simple.

I fucking love it.

I nip at her throat, grinning against her skin. "And you're my girlfriend now."

She hums, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Damn right, West."

I laugh, shaking my head before rolling onto my back, pulling her with me. She sprawls across my chest, legs tangled with mine, her head tucked under my chin.

It's quiet for a while. Comfortable.

And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I need a fucking cigarette. Or a drink. Or a hit.

Because this—her body against mine, her soft breaths warming my skin, her hand resting over my heart like she can feel it beating for her—
This is better than any high I've ever chased.

I could stay like this forever.

But my mind won't let me.

There's an itch under my skin. A familiar, gnawing sensation creeping through my veins. Not now, I tell myself. But my mind doesn't give a fuck about timing. It whispers, tempting, coaxing, reminding me how easy it would be to slip back into that haze.

I inhale sharply, forcing the thoughts down, pushing past the weight in my chest as I roll onto my stomach to check my phone on the nightstand. The bright screen stings my eyes.

10:42 AM.

Willa shifts beside me, then goes still. A second later, I feel the lightest drag of her fingertips over my back.

I freeze.

She traces slow, featherlight lines along my shoulder blade, right over the ink there.

The willow tree.

Her touch is delicate, like she's afraid she'll shatter something if she presses too hard.

I swallow thickly, my fingers gripping the edge of my pillow as she runs her fingers down the trunk of the tree, over the roots twisting along my ribs.

"I love this tattoo," she murmurs.

I exhale slowly. "Yeah?"

Her fingers keep tracing. "Yeah."

She's known about it since the first time she saw me with my shirt off after I came back. She hadn't said much then—just stared at it for a long time, her eyes softer than I deserved.

But right now, she's touching it like she's committing every detail to memory.

Her touch skims lower, down to where the roots stretch across my side.

Her voice is softer this time. "It's for me, right?"

I let out a slow chuckle. "It's always been for you."

Her breath catches.

I feel her shift, her weight adjusting as she leans over me. Then—

A kiss.

The lightest press of her lips to my shoulder blade. Then another. And another.

A trail of soft, delicate kisses pressed over every part of the tattoo. Over the branches, the trunk, the roots.

Like she's trying to piece me back together, one kiss at a time.

I close my eyes, jaw clenched. It hurts, the way she loves me. Like I'm something worth treasuring.

Like I'm not already ruined.

Even now, with her hands on me, her body curled around mine, there's something dark and twisted inside me that still aches for an escape. A high. A way out.

And I hate myself for it.

For still wanting that after this. After her.

"Dom?" she whispers, sensing the shift in me.

I turn my head to look at her again, and fuck—she's right there. Close enough that I can see every gold fleck in her green eyes. Close enough that I can smell the lingering vanilla on her skin.

I reach up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. My chest feels too tight, my throat closing up, the words clawing their way up before I can stop them.

"I love you," I rasp.

Her lips part, eyes going wide.

And then—nothing.

She doesn't say it back.

Something cold slithers down my spine, but I keep my expression blank, waiting, hoping—

She looks down, her fingers curling into the sheets.

"Willa." My voice is quieter now, rougher.

She lifts her gaze back to mine, and the pain in her expression slices me in two.

"I can't say it," she whispers.

I blink, my pulse hammering.

Her eyes are glassy, guilt clouding them. "I said it once before, and then you left me, Dom."

Fuck.

I feel that like a punch to the ribs.

She swallows, her hands reaching for mine, gripping them tight. "I do, though." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "You know I do."

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, inhaling through my nose. When I open them again, she's watching me like she's afraid I'll shatter into a million pieces.

I won't.

Not if she's holding me together.

I force a smirk, trying to lighten the weight pressing down on us. "You can't say it, but you will."

A soft breath of laughter escapes her lips, but it's laced with sadness.

Then, she cups my face, her thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. "I'm proud of you."

I go still.

Her voice is steady, sure. "I don't care if you're still fighting demons. I don't care if you crave things that aren't good for you. I see you, Dom. And I'm so fucking proud of you."

I exhale sharply, my hands fisting the sheets.

Because fuck.

No one's ever said that to me before.

No one's ever looked at me like I was more than my mistakes. More than the drugs. More than a fuck-up.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, nodding once, because I don't trust myself to speak.

She presses her forehead against mine, her breath warm against my lips. "We're gonna be okay."

I don't know if she's saying it for me or for herself. Maybe both.

But I believe her.

I have to.

𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

guys I actually can't write the chapter that will happen soon. It will tear me apart.