Midnight Lessons (Midnight Falls, Texas)

6. Willow

Chapter 6

Willow

The soft chime of the doorbell pulls me from my last-minute dinner prep frenzy. I wipe my hands on my apron, flour dusting off in a small cloud, and take a deep breath before opening the door.

Owen stands there, all tall and dark, his easy grin not quite reaching those deep blue eyes that are always watching, always thinking. There’s a slight tension in his posture that only I would notice. We’ve had dinner together several times over the past three weeks, here or at one of the local eating spots. But the dinner we had at my parent’s house last weekend still lingers in my mind.

They saw him briefly at his parents’ funeral, but it was the first time they’d spent any time with him since he left town for the city. Mom and Dad were good friends with Leah and Henry, so I knew seeing Owen again would be tricky and awkward for everyone.

My mom was polite, welcoming him with her usual warmth and saying how good it was to see him again. But my dad? Despite his impartial advice that evening at their house, all his protective hackles went up when he saw Owen. Dad’s jaw clenched when Owen hugged my mom, and his eyes lingered a little too long on my hand when Owen brushed his fingers against mine.

Dad’s protective nature kicked in the moment he realized how badly I was hurt all those years ago. He was the one to pick up the pieces, listening to my tears over endless cups of tea and silent hugs on the porch.

But that night, something shifted. Mom noticed it first, the way Owen’s attention never wavered from me, even during the most mundane conversations. He listened attentively, his gaze softening whenever I spoke. It was small, but Dad noticed it, too .

What really got him, though, was when Owen mentioned—almost offhandedly—that he was trying to track down whoever was behind the betting pool causing me so much grief. My dad’s eyes narrowed, suspicion melting into something more like curiosity. As Owen explained his plans and the lengths he was willing to go to keep me safe—having his friend Mark investigate using the resources of his IT company—I saw Dad’s shoulders loosen and his expression thaw.

By the time we were clearing the plates, Dad was even laughing at one of Owen’s jokes. A real laugh, not the forced, polite kind. And when we left that evening, I could’ve sworn I saw a glimmer of approval in his gaze—a tentative acceptance I hadn’t seen in years.

And it’s not just the effort Owen has been making with my parents that’s reassured me his intentions are genuine; he’s also shown me with his actions that he cares. He stops by the bakery whenever he gets the chance, bringing me flowers or small, thoughtful gifts. He holds my hand when we walk down the street, opens doors, and pulls out chairs for me. All in all, he’s been the perfect gentleman— and I’m unsure if I’m happy he finds it so easy to keep his hands to himself.

I guess he’s giving me the time and space to adjust to this tentative new relationship we’re building. But we’ve had years of space. Six years of pining and not communicating what we truly want.

I almost laugh at my thoughts. Who would’ve thought that three weeks ago, I’d be contemplating seducing the man who broke my heart?

Owen Callahan was hard to resist in high school—not that I wanted to back then—but it’s nothing compared to the pull he has on me now. The walls around my heart, built brick by brick since he left, are crumbling like old plaster under the weight of time. Every touch, every look, causes the cracks to spread, and I know it’s only a matter of time before they collapse completely.

I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. Maybe we’re building something stronger than we had before—something that even my father’s protective instincts can’t help but trust.

“Hey,” he says, stepping into the warm glow of my apartment above the hardware store. His presence fills the small entryway and makes my heart skip a beat. He smells like fresh air and pine. Like home. How the hell did I manage to stay away from him for so long?

“For dinner.” He hands me the bottle of wine he brought and leans in to kiss my cheek, lingering long enough that the heat from his lips teases my skin. “Something smells amazing.”

“It’s just lasagna,” I say with a nervous laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything—the flour on my apron, the way my hands are still a little shaky from the anticipation of seeing him.

“Lasagna’s never just lasagna when you make it,” he says, his grin widening as he steps fully into the apartment. His eyes sweep over the room, taking in the cozy scene I’ve created, candles flickering on the table, plates set for two.

“Thanks.” I manage a smile as I lead him to the kitchen, where the scent of garlic and herbs hangs thick in the air. The small space seems even tinier with him in it .

“Still watching those crappy 80s shows, I see,” he teases, glancing at the TV where an episode of Knight Rider is currently playing.”

“Hey, don’t mock The Hoff,” I say with a mock glower. “Michael and KITT were an awesome crime-fighting duo.”

He shakes his head. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

I blush, and my pulse quickens at the endearment. The past few weeks have been surreal—Owen and I, together but not quite together . He’s been sweet and attentive and always there when I need him, but there’s been this restraint. A barrier between us that neither of us has dared cross.

“Wine?” I ask, uncorking the bottle and grabbing two glasses.

He nods, watching me closely as I pour. Does he feel it too? The connection simmering beneath the surface, the unspoken tension waiting to overflow like bubbles from a champagne bottle?

“Thanks,” he says, taking the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine.

That simple touch has goosebumps spreading up my arm, tightening my nipples. I take a sip of wine to steady myself.

We move to the table, and for the next few minutes, we do the usual—small talk about work, the bakery, and his latest project at the school. But the air between us feels different tonight. There’s an unspoken weight hanging over us, something neither of us can ignore much longer.

We finish eating and clear the dishes in comfortable silence, moving together in the confined space of the kitchen with an ease that reminds me of better days.

Once we’re done cleaning up, I refill our wine glasses, and we move to the cozy living room. We sit on my small, squashy couch, knees almost touching, the room lit by a soft glow from the lamp in the corner.

Owen picks up an old yearbook from the coffee table, the one I was flipping through last night, and opens it to a picture of us at prom.

“God, can you remember how comically awful that night was?” he asks, pointing at the image of us, me in a dress that was too tight for my curvy frame and him with so much hair gel, it looked like he’d tipped a bottle of oil on his head.

“Hard to forget.” I chuckle, shaking my head at our younger selves. “You were so proud of that rented tux.”

“And you kept stepping on my toes during the dance.” He grins, the memory a fond one for him too.

“Only because you’re a terrible dancer,” I tease, nudging his shoulder playfully.

“Hey, I’ve improved since then,” he defends himself, closing the book and setting it aside. The air between us is lighter now, tinged with laughter and the comfort of shared history.

“Prove it,” I challenge, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe later.” He winks, and something about the way he says it sends a thrill through me.

Owen leans back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers grazing my shoulder. It’s casual but intentional, and I’m suddenly aware of every point where our bodies are touching .

“Anyway, it feels like we’ve lived a dozen lifetimes since high school, huh?” he muses aloud.

“Feels like it,” I agree, my thoughts drifting. “I always thought I’d leave Midnight Falls. Travel. Maybe even live in another country for a while.”

“Yet here you are, the queen of cookies,” he says with a softness that tells me he understands the underlying confession. “And I can’t imagine this town without you or your Halloween treats.”

His words wrap around me, comforting yet stirring a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. There’s an ease to our conversation that I didn’t expect after everything that’s happened.

And as the evening stretches on, we sip the wine he brought as stories and memories spill out. Laughter bubbles up, surprising me with its lightness.

“Remember that summer when we tried to build a treehouse in Melvyn’s old oak tree?”

I chuckle, already knowing where he's going with this. “Oh God, yes. How could I forget? You were so determined to get that thing built, even though neither of us knew what we were doing. ”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I still don’t know why we thought a couple of twelve-year-olds could tackle something that big.”

I laugh along, remembering how serious we were, hauling wood and hammering nails like construction pros. “You almost took your hand off trying to saw that board.”

Owen grins, rubbing his palm as if feeling the phantom injury. “Yeah, but you were the one who fell out of the tree when Melvyn caught us. You screamed so loud, I thought for sure you'd broken something.”

I groan, covering my face. “My ass was sore for weeks. I swear, I thought I’d be grounded for life after that. And the treehouse was more like a pile of broken boards nailed together.”

Owen’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “But Melvyn didn’t even yell at us. He just looked at the mess we made and said, ‘I’ll give you five bucks if you take that thing down.’”

I burst out laughing, remembering the way we looked at each other, too embarrassed to admit we’d already given up. “And we actually took the five bucks.”

Owen nods, his smile softening. “Yeah, I guess even back then, we were a team. We were always getting into something, weren’t we?”

The warmth of the memory spreads through me, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed. Just us, the way we used to be. But this time, the air between us hums with something deeper, something more.

Hope, fragile and tentative, blooms in my chest. Maybe this time, we’ll get it right.

Will you? Or will he leave again?

My smile dies at the thought. The clock ticks a steady rhythm, filling the silence as Owen and I hover on the edge of something undefined. I see the pulse at his throat beat in time with mine, and it’s like the air between us is charged with electricity. The wine glass in my hand suddenly feels too fragile, so I set it down with an unsteady clink on the coffee table.

Owen’s eyes lock onto mine in that way that makes my stomach flip. He’s always been good at reading me, and tonight is no different. He knows something’s on my mind.

"What’s going on, Low?" he asks softly, setting his glass beside mine.

I hesitate before meeting his gaze. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Are we... Are we trying again? Or are we just... kidding ourselves?”

His brow furrows, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you mean?”

“I mean... this.” I gesture between us. “It’s been three weeks, and you’ve been perfect—sweet, patient, everything. But you haven’t touched or kissed me since that day at the bakery. I-I don’t know where we stand. And I don’t want any miscommunications this time.”

He exhales slowly, and for a moment, he looks almost relieved, like he’s been waiting for this conversation as much as I have. “After everything that happened, I didn’t want to push you. I thought maybe you needed time.”

“I’ve had time,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. “Six years of it. ”

His eyes kindle as he reaches for my hand, twining our fingers together. “I’m here because I want you. I’ve always wanted you. Only you.”

His raw honesty makes my heart ache. I squeeze his hand, and the tension between us snaps as the last of my reservations melt away.

“Then stop holding back,” I whisper.

In an instant, Owen’s mouth crashes down on mine with a hunger that’s been building for weeks—no, years . The kiss is deep, desperate, all-consuming, and I respond in kind, fisting my hands in his shirt as I press closer.

He cups my face gently, thumbs stroking my cheeks as if memorizing the feel of my skin. My fingers find their way into his hair, tugging him closer, needing him as much as I need the air in my lungs.

He groans against my mouth, his hands slipping down to my waist, pulling me even tighter against his body. It’s like all the restraint he’s shown over the past few weeks has evaporated, leaving nothing but raw need in its place .

“Low,” he breathes, pulling back slightly to look at me. “I’ve missed this. Fuck, I’ve missed you .”

“I’m right here,” I whisper, tugging him back down, my lips finding his again.

The kiss deepens, filled with longing and desire, and I’m lost in the rush of emotions that flood me. This isn’t just a spark; it’s a blaze that reignites everything I thought I’d tucked safely away. All the pain and the hurt melt under the heat of his lips on mine.

We break apart, gasping slightly, our foreheads still touching. I open my eyes to find his on me, those blue depths reflecting an intensity that steals my already-labored breath.

“Willow,” Owen says with a certainty that steadies my racing heart. “I meant what I said before. I want to make this work, whatever it takes.”

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. The bet, the town, the past, they’re all there, lingering in the shadows, but for now, they don’t matter. What matters is the man in front of me, the promise in his eyes, and our shared heartbeat that seems to echo around the room .

“Me too,” I manage.

Owen smiles, and it’s like a dawn breaking. Standing, he hauls me off the sofa into his arms, and I wrap my legs around his waist.

“Where’s the bedroom?”

“Why? Are you sleepy?” I tease, nibbling his earlobe.

“Sweetheart, not one damn inch of me is sleepy, especially not the inches between my legs,” he says, cupping my ass and grinding his hard cock against me.

My eyes widen. “No. Not sleepy at all.”

I point at the door across the hall, and he strides from the living room. Opening the bedroom door, he tosses me onto the bed and follows me down…