They didn't go home straight away.
The wind had sharpened, tugging at coats and loose hems, but neither of them mentioned it. The pier lights faded behind them as they walked along the quieter stretch near the water, where the town thinned and the sound of the sea grew louder than anything human.
Willow stopped near the end of the path, where a low stone wall curved toward the cliff. She rested her hands on it, fingers cold against the rock.
"There's something I should tell you," she said.
Michael turned to face her fully. No rush. No pressure. Just attention.
"You don't have to," he said.
"I know." She swallowed. "But I want to."
For a moment, she said nothing. The words sat heavy, tangled, old.
"My dad," she began, eyes fixed on the water, "wasn't a good man."
Michael didn't react. Didn't stiffen. Didn't reach out. He let her keep her balance.
"He hit my mum," Willow continued. "A lot. And us. Mostly her. Sometimes us. Mostly… whatever was closest."
Her voice didn't shake. That scared her more than if it had.
"My older sister—Yuki—she tried to protect us. When she was nineteen, she dated someone who seemed different. Kind. Calm." Willow let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "He wasn't."
Michael's jaw tightened, just slightly.
"He beat her so badly she ended up in hospital," Willow said. "Broken ribs. A concussion. He went to prison."
The sea crashed against the rocks below them, sudden and violent.
"That's why I flinch," she said quietly. "Why I used to freeze when you raised your voice in the kitchen. I know you weren't angry at me. I knew that. But my body didn't."
Michael looked away, breath steady but shallow. When he spoke, his voice was low.
"I'm sorry," he said. Not as an apology for himself—an acknowledgment of harm done.
"I noticed when you changed," Willow said. "The way you started lowering your voice. Stepping back. Giving me space."
She turned to him then, eyes bright but dry. "No man has ever done that for me. Not without being asked. Not without wanting something back."
Michael's throat worked. "I never want to be the reason someone feels afraid."
"I know," she said. "That's why I'm telling you this."
He stepped closer—not invading, just present.
"If you ever need to talk," he said, carefully, "I'm here. And if you don't, that's okay too."
Something in her chest loosened. Not healed. Not fixed.
But held.
She nodded, once.
Then, without warning, the sky opened. Rain came down hard and sudden, soaking them in seconds.
Willow laughed, startled. Michael did too, the sound brief and surprised.
"Storms don't ask permission," she said.
"No," he replied. "But we can wait them out."
They ran back toward town together, rain plastering hair to skin, the night loud and alive around them.
And for the first time, Willow didn't feel alone inside her own history.
Willow's Diary
I told him the truth.
Not all of it—
but enough.
He didn't try to carry it for me.
He just stood beside it.
That might be the bravest thing I've ever seen.
Poem — The Things I Didn't Say
There are stories
that live in the body
long before they find a voice.
Tonight,
I let one breathe.
It didn't ask for saving.
It only asked
not to be alone anymore.