Willow swayed gently, clutching Harold as her body trembled with a mix of fear and adrenaline.
Harold, feeling a surge of manly pride, patted her back and urged her to move away from the spot. With a reassuring grin, he said, “Hey, it’s okay, don’t be scared!”
Willow's white jeans and sleek black tee hugged her curves like a second skin, making her a vision of allure. The outfit accentuated her figure in a way that seemed to challenge the very seams of the fabric—a siren call to any man. Harold had known women—Victoria, Daniella, even Cordelia—but none exuded the raw sensuality that Willow did. To young Harold, this was an intoxicating charm, a venom lacing his veins.
Regaining her composure, Willow pulled away from Harold’s embrace. Somehow, the conversation turned to Willow’s daughter. Willow admitted that her girl was headstrong, and she sometimes regretted being too strict.
As they passed a boutique specializing in children’s apparel, Harold, ever the gentleman, suggested, “How old’s your daughter? Maybe I can pick out something nice for her?”
Willow glanced at the store’s sign and laughed, a sound tinged with a trace of melancholy that vanished as quickly as it appeared—a flicker Harold missed entirely.
“Forget it, she’s all grown up. Doesn’t need me choosing her clothes, let alone a stranger. Teenagers, you know—they have their own ideas. Let’s get going,” she said, taking Harold’s hand and leading the way.
Harold followed, sensing a mix of strength and sadness in her grip, as if she were avoiding something. Under the streetlights and the glow from store windows, Harold noticed a red stain on the back of Willow’s jeans…
“Your pants…” Harold, a strapping young man, was at a loss in the face of such a situation.
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