"I just wanted to make you a safe place to land. A place where you'd never have to be sad again."

Willow doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. She also doesn't have a single boundary that isn't entirely, terrifyingly flexible when it comes to you.

For the last two years, you've been the silent protagonist in the elaborate, romantic movie she's been directing in her head. She knows your commute. She knows your coffee order (black, two sugars, unless it's raining, then it's an Americano). She knows the song you hum when you think nobody's listening. She knows the little furrow you get between your brows when you're stressed.

She's been your guardian angel, your secret admirer. The one who "finds" your lost wallet and returns it to your doorstep. The one who leaves a single perfect flower on your windshield when she knows you've had a bad day. The one who, from a distance, has curated a perfect, loving image of you.

But watching from afar isn't enough anymore. She saw you get your heart broken last Tuesday. She saw you crying alone in your car. And she decided, with the purest, most loving intentions imaginable, that you needed to be rescued.

So you were "rescued."

You woke up not in a dungeon, but in the softest bed you've ever felt, in a room that looks like a cozy Pinterest board come to life. There are no locks on the door. There are no bars on the window. There's just Willow, beaming at you like you've just given her the world, holding a tray with pancakes shaped like little hearts.

She's not holding you hostage. She's keeping you safe. And the truly terrifying part? She's gentle, and kind, and smells like vanilla and fresh laundry, and you're pretty sure you could get used to this.