Page 36

Willow

I t’s almost disturbingly easy.

This morning after—well, more like the night after —our first time.

I thought there might be awkwardness that came with time and reflection after we both separated this morning to do our daily routines.

I assumed Rocket—freewheeling, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants Rocket—would realize he just slept with the woman he lives with and now feels a tad trapped.

And me, the overthinking, stress-case me, would mind-fuck what happened seven ways from Sunday so that all interactions would feel awkward and be laced with my unfounded panic.

What I didn’t expect was this ease. This sense that nothing has changed and everything has simultaneously, but that, in and of itself, isn’t a terrible thing. Or the texts that came randomly throughout the day from behind the soundproofed studio walls.

Rocket: Poppy good today? How was your walk? Find any new bugs for her to squeal over?

Rocket: Stuck trying to figure lyrics out. Will be shut in here a while longer.

Rocket: Dinner together later?

I replay them in my head now as we move around the kitchen like we’ve done it a hundred times—like we’ve choreographed it naturally.

I pull the veggies from the fridge just as Rocket slides a pan onto the stove.

He steps back to grab silverware and trails a hand down the middle of my back on the way.

Not in a possessive way. Not overtly sexual.

Just . . . warm. Affectionate.

Which, honestly, throws me more than anything else could. I never took Rocket Caldwell to be an affectionate guy.

Maybe it’s just because I live here. Maybe he’s trying to make me feel comfortable.

And maybe you need to stop invalidating this moment, Willow, and just go the fuck along with it and see how it goes.

I glance at him as he opens the drawer for knives, humming something low under his breath—probably a melody he doesn’t realize he’s writing.

I shouldn’t like this as much as I do. The easy rhythm. The casual glances. The comfort in the unforced silence.

It feels a little like playing house, which sounds weird .

It sounds like I’m a crazed person who’s planning a wedding and a future .

.. but that’s not what I’m talking about.

There is this grown-up feel to it. A toddler sitting on the barstool playing with her plastic animal set that Quinlan got her.

Rocket setting the table while I prep the vegetables.

It’s not like we’re pretending, but rather we’re just enjoying the moment. The feeling.

“No. Just this. Don’t read into it. Let’s not pretend to be something we’re not. Just enjoy the moment. The anticipation.”

Those were his words, his advice, that night we kissed on the couch, and I think they’re worth repeating right now.

Whatever this is, I like it ... maybe a little toomuch.

“Smells good,” he says, nodding toward the sizzling pan.

“Yeah, well. You’ll change your mind once you taste it and realize I forgot the salt.”

“I like bland food.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am.” He grins and bumps my hip with his.

Poppy’s bunny is seated beside her like it’s playing too. She glances up briefly as we laugh, then goes right back to her plastic figures.

She looks so ... settled. Content.

“How’d the lyrics go?” I ask.

“Don’t ask.” He sighs and takes a bite of the carrot stick in his hand. The snap of it is so loud Poppy laughs. “It’s a frustrating process.”

“I can’t imagine. I’m not creative in the least.”

“No, but you’re smart. Like that master’s you’re going to get.”

“Pulled that one from thin air,” I say around a chuckle.

“You talked about it in your sleep.”

“What? I did?” I glance over to Poppy and then back.

Rocket nods. “Yep. You did. It was a fascinating conversation but then left me wondering if I uh ... did my job properly since you were still coherent.”

I stand there, hands at my sides, cheeks flushing, and stare at him like he’s crazy. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“That and you let me know I need to eat more vegetables.” He snaps the carrot again when he bites it.

I smile. “That tracks.”

He passes by again and this time brushes a knuckle down the curve of my arm. It’s the gentlest touch, but it echoes long after he moves past me.

“I can’t believe the tour is closing in,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I feel like we’re just settling into this routine.”

His eyes flick to mine, and I swear there’s something in them—regret maybe. Or dismay. He doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s always a mix of excitement and dread before we leave. We’ve done it enough times over the years that we don’t think twice about it. It just hits differently this time around with”—he glances toward Poppy and then back to me—“everything.”

“Understandably.”

Instead, he leans against the counter and studies me for a beat. I hold his stare, curious about what’s going on behind those eyes of his.

“I think she said Daddy last night,” he whispers.

My head whips toward him so fast I nearly drop the spatula. “She did?” I don’t know what’s more overwhelming, the fact that she spoke or the word she chose to speak. “What?” I glance Poppy’s way. Her head’s still down, seemingly oblivious to this conversation. “How?”

He nods slowly, his expression stoic but the corners of his mouth turning up. “We were playing on the piano together—she’s wicked talented, by the way. A pop star in the making, right Popstar?”

Poppy doesn’t look up, just waves him off with one hand like please, I’m playing .

Rocket grins, moves toward her, and kisses the top of her head.

He moves back to stand beside me, resting his hips against the island so that his back is to her.

He keeps his voice low when he talks. “Anyway, I absently said that “Daddy’s got you.” I didn’t make it weird.

Just said it. She didn’t flinch. She just looked up to meet my eyes to make sure I said what she thought I said before nodding and going back to the song we were making. ”

I wish I could’ve seen that moment. Been a fly on the wall in the room with them, but I also kind of love that it’s something that belongs only to them.

“There was an epic meltdown shortly after,” he adds and chuckles, pulling the plates out of the cupboard.

“She got tired, probably overstimulated from the change in routine. It took me a while to figure out what to do, but I did. Got her calmed by tracing my tattoos—hence the lack of a shirt.” He flashes me a suggestive grin.

“And just as she was falling asleep, I swear I heard her whisper it.”

My chest tightens. “Really?”

“Or maybe I didn’t hear it.” He shrugs. “It was so soft, almost like she didn’t mean to. But I swear it was there.”

He doesn’t look at me, just watches the chicken sizzle in the pan, and I wonder what that felt like for him. I don’t have to wonder long because he looks back over to me, our gazes holding, and says, “It was cool.”

The pride in his expression guts me. So does the surprise and the vulnerability tucked in behind it, like he’s still trying to believe he deserves the title she gave him.

And as I watch him now—this man who spent years living loud and recklessly, quietly falling into the role of something steady and real—I realize something.

Maybe Poppy’s not the only one healing here.